


Blood Honey

by Teese



Series: When You're Upside Down [3]
Category: Johnny Depp - Fandom, Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bonding, Depression, M/M, Violence, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: More than a decade later, everything’s changed, and while the past is never completely dead and gone, romance certainly is. Brian returns home from Europe to find that everything has gone even further to hell, and just when he thought he had nothing more to lose, he loses everything. He suddenly has to face an ugly truth he’s been avoiding for years: You can’t be a family on your own. Johnny, on the other hand, feels better than he’s felt in a long, long time – free from his shackles, so to speak – but when old friends reunite, he realizes he’s got to do something, because Jesus fucking Christ, Brian’s the best buddy’s he’s ever had and he’s bloody miserable. So, what does a man do? How does he help? It’s almost impossible because nothing’s more destructive than old hurt, and when a certain angry motherfucker is feeling hurt, things get out of hand.
Relationships: Johnny Depp/Marilyn Manson, Madonna Wayne Gacy/Twiggy Ramirez
Series: When You're Upside Down [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491638
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	1. The Brain Is Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Damn, this has been one heck of an emotional ride for me. Part 3 is incredibly dear to my heart; I don't think I've ever written with such honesty, and I've gotten so attached to these characters, it's insane. I love them. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :) Comments are appreciated.

August 28, 2016

Los Angeles, California

“… What the heck?” he muttered to himself, wondering why he couldn’t get his pants past his thighs. Had they shrunk? He let out a string of profanities, all of them aimed at that goddamn housekeeper who didn’t know up from down, and then tossed the pants aside. However, when the next pair wouldn’t get past his knees, he started getting a little worried. Had _all_ his pants shrunk? That wasn’t possible, was it? He tried two more pairs and nearly threw a temper tantrum when, surprise, surprise, they wouldn’t fit him.

_That stupid cunt doesn’t even know how to do the fucking laundry. How the fuck is that possible?_

He walked into the closet where he stored some of his old stage costumes, the only clothes that lady hadn’t washed, and tried to pull on a pair of leather pants. If she had in fact washed those as well, leather still couldn’t shrink. In the end, it hardly mattered. The leather pants, like all the other pants he’d tried that day, wouldn’t fit. It was only when he wrapped the measuring tape around his waist, his brows drawn together in concentration, that it dawned on him. He hadn’t just packed on a couple of pounds, oh no, he’d grown fat.

“… How is that even…” His eyes shot up from the disappointing number only to meet his even more disappointed eyes in the mirror. And for the first time in months, he took a really good look at himself. What he saw made him scrunch up his nose in disgust, almost cringing. He’d always been the skinniest guy in the room, but now? He had a second chin, flabby thighs and a paunch better suited for a kangaroo. In short, he looked like the spitting image of his elderly father. That filled him with shame.

Lily White walked inside the huge closet and gazed up at her Daddy with big eyes, probably wondering how the hell he’d gotten so out of shape. Not that he’d ever been in shape, no, he’d just been thin. But out of shape and thin was definitely still better than out of shape and fat.

“I know I look like shit. You don’t have to stare.”

The cat meowed sadly in response. Or was it agreement?

“… I’ll have to buy new clothes,” he muttered sourly and went to grab the sweatpants he’d been wearing for some time. His assistant had been the one doing his shopping lately. She’d clearly seen that he’d been getting heftier and had bought clothes accordingly. The fact that she had somehow failed to mention this to him, her employer, annoyed him, but alright, she’d done it to spare him the embarrassment. Or simply to avoid one of his hissy fits. 

“I’m getting old,” he grumbled, shaking his head. The cat, sensing his distress, rubbed her head against his calf as if to say, ‘You look fine to me’.

“You’re an angel.” He smiled, scratching her behind the ear.

A couple of hours later, he’d acquired a whole new wardrobe for himself. Standing before his bedroom mirror, he tried on some of the items he’d bought, starting with a black button-down shirt and matching black pants that, according to the saleslady, hugged him in ‘all the right places’, which was just a fancy way of letting him know he was now so fat he needed special clothes to hide it. He’d also bought some simple T-shirts, two black vests, a leather jackets, several pairs of gray and black pants, shirts and a couple of suit jackets.

“… Fuck,” he muttered, aware that the situation regarding his physique wasn’t about to get any better unless he changed his eating habits, and those habits had lasted more than four decades. Too bad he hadn’t listened to Johnny’s warnings regarding Mickey D’s and other fast-food chains. Well, he hadn’t ever said he’d get chubby, he’d just lament the fact that the oils they used would give you cancer. Oh, and animal cruelty – especially the process of making nuggets. But none of that had kept him from ordering and eating the stuff.

_The fucker should’ve mentioned it’d make me look like one of Ruben's fat bitches._

_Johnny_. He furrowed his brow, remembering with sudden unease that he hadn’t talked to the actor in months. He should give him a call. Well, he’d get to it as soon as today’s tedious business was over with, which turned his attention back to the mirror and the monstrosity that was his bulging belly. 

_I don’t want to leave the house looking like this._ He bit down on his lower lip, wondering if he could postpone the planned visit to his parents’ house, but no, that wasn’t possible. During the last few months on the road, he had barely even had the time to call them from time to time, his schedule jam-packed with meetings, interviews, concerts and whatnot. _Alright, Brian, you big baby. Best to get it over with._

* * *

The house hadn’t changed much, but much to his surprise, the once colorful flowers in the garden had been left for dead and were now brown and shriveled up. When he made a quick detour through the trees that shielded the pool from curious passers-by, he noted that the pool too had fallen into disrepair. The water was muddy and there were leaves and insects floating around, the smell unsavory. Brian frowned, wondering what the hell was going on. He had hired a housekeeper and a gardener to look after the property years ago, around the time his parents had started getting slow and less agile, and this was honestly unheard of. What had he even been paying for?

_I’m going to kill those lazy fuckers_ , he thought to himself, his mood suddenly sour. As he walked back to the entrance, he saw some of his Mom’s pet rats strewn about, all of them dead, the stench sickening.

_Okay._ He frowned. _Now I’m getting worried._

He knocked on the door. Immediately after, his father opened it to greet him.

“Son,” he said, and while he looked uncharacteristically thin and tired, his brown eyes lit up at the sight of his only child. “Come on in.”

“… Dad,” the singer said as he shut the door behind him. “Why’s the garden looking so shabby?”

“Oh, that,” his father mumbled, scratching his chin in a thoughtful manner. “I didn’t want to worry you while you were on tour, but, yeah, alright, things haven’t been so great around here.” His eyes clouded over as he said this. “Nothing much you could’ve done all the way from Europe.” 

Brian lifted one brow and said, “I’ll fire those lazy motherfuckers in a heartbeat,” feeling betrayed. He had of course told his employees that his parents were elderly and would rely heavily on their help, and not only with cleaning and gardening. His Dad sometimes felt dizzy and didn’t want to drive around on his own, so they’d have to buy groceries, drive them to see their friends and other small tasks. But in spite of being paid a pretty penny for their efforts, they hadn’t been trustworthy. That pissed him off.

“Oh, no, no need for that…”

The singer was about to protest when he noticed the house was in a state of general disarray with rubbish, empty beer cans and clothes strewn all over the floors. And the kitchen smelled oddly like his Florida flat – the one he’d shared with Jim, a low-life junkie, back in the 80s – and everything was coated in dust.

“… Where’s Mom?” he asked, his voice small. Panic gripped around his heart, making it hard to breathe.

“You better take a seat, son.”

Brian paled but sat down in one of the two armchairs facing the sizable TV. When he looked up, his father heaved a sigh, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“What’s… what’s going on, Dad?”

“… Your mother’s in a nursing home,” his father said calmly, trying his best not to break character. He had to be a _father_ now, but of course, he was also a grieving husband. He’d grieved his Barb countless times before, her illness removing her personality, her memories and all else, by the drop. In the end, she’d barely been able to remember her own name – and she hadn’t recognized Brian. She’d whacked her beloved rats, thinking they were vermin and not pet rats. She’d left the house and gotten lost. She’d be herself in the morning, kissing him on the cheek and making him breakfast, but in the evening, once the sun was down, she’d ask him who he was. She’d think she was fifteen years old again, determined to go see Elvis. And when her ‘good periods’ were reduced to having a vague understanding of who she herself was, he’d have to call it quits. The illness had exhausted him, and it’d only been getting worse since 2008. Now it was nearly over.

“What?”

“She’s very ill,” he informed him. “Doesn’t remember a thing.”

Brian swallowed thickly at the bluntly delivered message, wondering why his eyes were burning.

“… Um,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “She doesn’t remember us?”

When Hugh shook his head, he felt like beating the crap out of some poor, unsuspecting soul. But what happened instead was even more unexpected. Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He felt like someone had clawed his heart out, stomped on it and then burned it in a firepit like it was nothing.

“We’ve got to make the best of it,” his father said, licking his lips. “Of whatever time she’s got left.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down at his clenched fists. “But she doesn’t… doesn’t remember.”

His father fell quiet. He’d been dreading this moment for a long, long time and it was about as hard as he’d imagined. Letting someone know their mother can’t even remember their name isn’t easy, but he’d already kept his son in the dark long enough.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he finally said, his mouth feeling dry.

“What’s that?”

“You know that actor friend of yours?”

The singer nodded. “Johnny.”

“Well, I was thinking…” Hugh smiled sadly. “She still watches his movies all the time. I think she prefers him to Elvis,” he joked good-naturedly, always one to cheer people up, but even as he said this, Brian saw that his eyes were impossibly tired. Every new wrinkle was a result of this newfound remoteness of his life, of being bereft of the woman he’d loved for decades, and he felt the impact of his years like never before.

“You want him to visit her?” Brian asked, frowning. He hadn’t really talked to Johnny in a long time – not that they weren’t friendly anymore, no, but he’d feel awkward about contacting him about a favor. Johnny would do it, of course. He’d be happy to.

_Maybe I just don’t want him to see what an old man I’ve become. Fat and saggy. Hell, I even have tits now._

“She’d appreciate it,” Hugh said. When their eyes met, Brian saw that he’d been shedding tears.

“Anything for Mom.”

“… You aren’t pals anymore?” his father asked, his voice now taking on that parental tone that somehow managed to make him feel like a child.

“What, me and Johnny? We’re… we’re friendly enough.”

_Good thing you don’t know the full picture, Dad._ He laughed inwardly at the thought, aware that he’d be caught off guard. _You’d probably faint._

“He’s always reminded me of that fellow back in Vietnam,” Hugh said, sounding almost absent-minded as he thought about his youth. Or rather, he thought about the time he’d grown up. “His name was Frank Larsen – his father was Swedish or something – and man, was he a comedian. Oh, yeah, he was also a real pretty boy. He used to make this joke – or was it a joke?” He wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember something. “Anyways, he used to joke that if you wanted to stay clear of catching an STD, you’d just have to squirt some lemon juice on your lady friend’s private parts… ha-ha!”

Then, as soon as he’d told the ‘joke’, he broke down in tears. Brian had heard the story more than once and knew that Frank Larsen – his father was Norwegian, not Swedish – had died in Vietnam. All his close companions had died in Vietnam. Barb had been the only person he’d ever relied on. And in some way, he’d always relied on the fact that she’d be there through thick and thin, and even as death came creeping, he’d entertained this silly notion in his head that they’d die holding hands. He knew it’d been a fantasy. But still, losing her like this? It was torturous.

“… I’ll call Johnny,” Brian promised. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home, and we’ll visit Mom whenever Johnny’s free.”

Hugh looked visibly relieved. “Thank you, son,” was all he said, and then he cried some more.

* * *

A few days had gone by. Brian sat in the backseat of his new Mercedes. The driver – some guy called Landon – didn’t say a word, but he glanced in the rear-view mirror every five minutes to gawk. Brian was inwardly groaning, wishing Danny hadn’t moved to Alabama with his wife. He’d hired this guy through the same agency that had set him up with some of his most trusted bodyguards, but that hardly mattered. Well, one probably could trust him, but they had no chemistry. Couldn’t even talk about the weather without any awkward silences.

Johnny had a new mansion. He’d called him the other day and asked him if he could visit his Mom at the nursing home, which he’d graciously agreed to. Johnny wasn’t a stranger to that concept, after all. How many fatally ill kids had he entertained on their deathbed to fulfill their dying wish? Maybe Brian would’ve done the same had any kiddo wanted to see his ugly face before succumbing to cancer. The demand just wasn’t there.

_And there he is,_ he thought as he saw Johnny walking through the gate. He looked like his old self, clad in black pants, a black shirt and a gray vest. His hair was longer on one side, a bleak version of the asymmetrical undercut Brian himself had sported some years ago. Wasn’t that during his time with Dita? Either way, he was the same handsome, radiant, ravishing movie star he’d always been. Ageless, really.

_Why’s he so pretty? Fuck._

Brian, in spite of the hot weather, zipped up his jacket all the way to his chin.

“… Marilyn,” Johnny said the moment he opened the door. His smile wasn’t as dazzling as it used to be, its intensity dimmed by the gravity of the situation.

“Johnny.”

Landon backed the car out of the driveway and they headed toward the nursing home. It was a relatively short drive, about twenty-five minutes. As they sat there facing one another, Brian could feel a pair of brown eyes drinking him in, studying his plump face and round form. He would’ve been lying had he said he wasn’t feeling self-conscious about it. The man he had turned into was a poorly crafted replica of the mysterious musician Johnny had approached on the balcony all those years ago. Funny how he’d always felt too skinny back then, as if people would fail to see him. Never know what you have until it’s gone, right? It was agonizing nonetheless, the knowledge that Johnny saw him for exactly what he was and not for what he’d been. He was just an old fart and nothing more, and there wasn’t much to marvel at.

“… Lily-Rose misses you,” he heard him say, aware that he’d zoned out and couldn’t really remember a thing about the one-sided conversation. “She’s asking about her ‘uncle Manson’ all the time.”

“Fuck,” Brian said, shaking his head. “I’ll visit. Well, once Mom’s…”

Their eyes met briefly. Johnny’s gaze was gentle as he said, “I know.” When he dropped his gaze, Brian felt overly aware of the fact that he was taking in the sight of his protruding tummy. He took a deep breath and wondered what the hell was wrong with his heart. It was beating like a fucking drum machine. Nerves? Or rather, he was feeling unnerved.

_He thinks I’m ugly,_ he thought, biting the soft inside of his cheek. _Thinks I’m disgusting._

Johnny cleared his throat and asked, “How’s the old gal doing?”

“… She doesn’t remember me,” Brian muttered, his eyes clouding over with grief. “She doesn’t really remember her own name anymore. It’s… well, she’s already dead” – he tapped his finger against his forehead – “in here.”

Johnny nodded, aware of the troublesome side effects of old age.

“It’s Alzheimer’s?”

“Yeah.”

The movie star nodded again, aware that he couldn’t do much about that. Where Alzheimer’s was concerned, especially when it’d raged on for long enough, very little could be done to aid the person. In the end, their brain even forgot how to keep on breathing and they’d succumb to the illness. But if he couldn’t cure her, at least he could brighten her day. Didn’t really matter whether she recognized him or not, he was still an entertainer. He could charm her, make her laugh and feel good about herself. Her son was another tale altogether. He sat with his arms folded over his chest, shielding his body from prying eyes, and he was determined not to make eye contact.

“And how are you holding up?” Johnny asked, the question sincere. The singer almost snickered. It struck him that no one had asked him that in ages, and now that Johnny had asked, he found that he was feeling lonelier than ever before. He started rubbing his thighs with his hands, feeling oddly nervous.

“I’m…” He bit his lower lip, wondering what kind of an answer Johnny expected to hear. Too much honesty could be damaging. In the end, he whispered, “I’m as happy as one can be given the situation,” without taking his eyes off his hands. He’d tattooed the words ‘WILL’ and ‘RUST’ on his knuckles two weeks ago. Still startled him to see it.

“… Do you want me to stay with you?”

Brian’s eyes widened as he let out a surprised, “What?”

“Ah.” Johnny smiled kindly. “I mean after we’ve visited Barb. Some company wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

“I’m not some child-”

“Marilyn,” the actor said, his tone of voice weary. “Your mother’s gravely ill.” He paused for a moment, daring to meet the wounded look in his eyes. “She’s _dying_.”

“Well,” the singer muttered sourly, “she’s been sick for eight years.”

“She hasn’t been dying for eight years-”

“Oh!” the singer snorted, almost taking offense at the ridiculous statement. “She has been dying, Depp. She has.”

“What?”

“Took all her strength to keep sane,” he informed him, his eyes now wet with tears. “And she did it for me.”

_‘Cause she knew I’d be all alone without her. And I am._

Johnny didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say about it. He remembered when Barb had first been diagnosed, remembered how inconsolable Brian had been, and he knew he’d grieved her for years. Her memories had faded little by little, and now? Her brain was diseased. Nearly all memories had been devoured. Brian had said, ‘At least she isn’t aggressive like some’, but maybe it was all the more infuriating to those who mourned her. She was sitting in a grave dug by fate, simply waiting for someone to fill it with dirt so she could stop breathing. She wasn’t fighting to get out of that hole in the ground. Wasn’t even aware that she was sitting in it.

Johnny put his hand on top of Brian’s and said, “I’m here, you know.” The singer looked confused for a second there, though he couldn’t quite afford to make eye contact. Instead, he withdrew his own hand and resumed to staring out the window, his jaw tightening.

_Doesn’t matter what he says_ , he thought bitterly. _I’m always on my own._

* * *

He opened the door and saw his mother seated in an armchair in front of the TV she had hated so much in her past life. She looked like a rose that had withered. After just six months – the blink of an eye – she had shriveled to a wizened old woman with hair that was gray and wispy. Her face was so thin it didn’t remind him much of the plump woman who had enthusiastically overfed him throughout his childhood. But when she turned to look at him, her eyes as blue as the sky, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Mom?” he said tryingly. “Are you-”

“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes suddenly as gray as the rest of her. The question knocked the wind from his lungs. For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, watching her with a confused look on his face. The words ‘who are you?’ went on repeat inside his head, and the bitter irony of it – of the fact that she’d birthed him and named and raised him – rendered him speechless. Then he felt angry, angry because he almost felt like throwing the question back at her. In most ways, this wasn’t his mother. This woman wasn’t anyone, just an old sack of skin and bones.

“… I’m Brian,” he said, the words feeling strange as they left his mouth. “Brian Hugh Warner.”

“Nice to meet you, Brian.”

“… Yeah,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You too.”

Johnny’s hand was suddenly on his lower back. The actor stood behind the door, his eyes scanning his friend’s face for any clues. His eyes glazed over as he announced, “Barbara, there’s someone here who wants to meet you,” her name feeling foreign to speak out loud. Saying your parent’s name is always strange. It made his heart clench like a fist. Made him dizzy.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her smile so faint it looked transparent.

Johnny jumped out from behind the door and said, “Hello there, Mrs. Warner.”

Barbara let out a surprised squeal and exclaimed, “Oh, aren’t you Johnny Depp?”

“The one and only,” Johnny confirmed with a pleasant smile that made her swoon like a fifteen-year-old who’d just spotted Justin Bieber. She nearly stumbled out of her chair and threw her thin arms around him, hugging him with a kind of uncontrollable enthusiasm that wasn’t really appropriate for an elderly woman. When she started saying, “Oh, Mr. Depp, I’ve seen _all_ your movies time and time again,” completely forgetting they’d met before, Brian had to leave the room. Couldn’t watch. Couldn’t listen. He rushed inside an empty bedroom, threw the door shut and sank to the floor, his eyes filling with tears.

_Why did I go to Europe? I knew she was getting worse. I knew it. What a fucking idiot I am._

He hugged himself while letting out loud sobs that couldn’t be constrained for a second longer. A couple of months ago, she’d called him. The conversation had been normal, but he’d been getting ready for a stupid interview and hadn’t had the time to talk to her for more than five minutes. Now he felt horrible about that call. He’d brushed her off, told her a quick ‘love you too’, only to hang up on her. He furrowed his brow. Had she felt rejected? Maybe the distance had put strain on her already exhausted brain. Maybe missing him had been the final straw. The final drop. If he hadn’t left LA, maybe her health wouldn’t have declined so rapidly? Maybe they’d gotten to share a few final moments and savor each other’s company. Maybe.

_But I’ll never fucking know, will I?_ He bit down on his lip, trying to keep quiet. _I’m such an asshole. Such a stupid piece of shit…_

After about forty minutes, someone knocked on the door. The singer scraped himself off the floor and opened, already aware who it was, and indeed, Johnny stood there with a sad look on his face. That made the singer flinch, aware that the fact he’d been crying was about as apparent as the fact that he’d outgrown his old wardrobe and then some.

“… I’m sorry about that,” the brunet said in a quiet tone of voice, clearly feeling bad about how she’d fail to recognize her own son, but Johnny Depp? She’d remembered every goddamn movie he’d ever starred in. She’s made him scribble his name on her every belonging. When she’d asked him to write his name on her tit, he’d drawn a line, and yes, he’d been caught between amused and mortified.

“Oh, fucking hell,” the singer muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, almost unashamed. He couldn’t meet his eyes though. “Did she,” he began, his mouth very dry. “Did she enjoy herself?”

Johnny nodded. “She made me sign all her DVDs,” he said and gave a lopsided smile that didn’t at all reach his eyes. A severe case of bad acting. “Her clothes too – and her hand.”

Brian put on a plastic smile – it was all he could do to keep himself from crying – and said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he leaned into the touch a little bit, feeling weak.

“… Oh, Marilyn,” he whispered, his voice suddenly so feathery light it was almost nothing. “I’m your pal. You needn’t hide your emotions around me. Capeesh?”

The singer groaned, pulling away. “ _Please_ ,” he muttered, fixing him with a glare. “Don’t start acting like Jack Sparrow again. It’s too much.”

Johnny laughed at the comment. Not five minutes later, they were in the car and on their way back to their respective mansions. And as they drove there, Brian’s mind drifted back to the duplex in Canton, Ohio. His mother had doted on him during his childhood, maybe a little more than she should have, and he had wanted for nothing. Looking back, he knew that she’d spoiled him rotten, but he understood her. Hugh had often been absent back then. Vietnam, you know? And after ‘Nam, he’d been fairly absent-minded, sometimes spelling his name as ‘Brain’ rather than Brian. He’d drive around in his car for hours. He’d sit in front of the TV without moving or speaking. He’d just zone out completely. As a result of his inattentiveness, Barb had become dependent on her only child, and he’d developed some kind of separation anxiety. Just going to school had been tricky. The other kids had noticed, of course, and they’d pick on him for being a so-called momma’s boy.

“… I see you’ve got a new address,” he commented dryly when the car came to a halt, dragging him out of his daydreams of Canton the way it had been back in the 70s and early 80s.

“Ah, how very observant of you.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “What, the old castle wasn’t big enough for you?”

The actor arched a brow at him. He could practically hear him thinking, ‘I’m not the one fat enough to roll down a hill’, but the words that actually fell from his lips were rather shocking. “No, nothing like that,” he said, his lips curving into a strange smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. “I was kicked out of the house a couple of months ago. Vanessa decided she was fed up with me.”

“Oh.” Brian gave him a long look, a myriad of conflicting thoughts and feelings rushing through his heart and mind alike. “She…” His brows nearly bumped together, unsure of what to say. “Depp, I really didn’t see that one coming. Thought she’d stay with you until you died.” He nibbled on his lower lip for a moment, considering all the ups and downs of his friend’s marriage. He hadn’t ever known a woman more obstinate than her. Or was delusional a better description? “I really didn’t.”

Johnny grinned. “A free man, at last,” he chirped. “At long last.”

As soon as he had said that, his cheeky smile faded and was exchanged for something like sadness. He clasped the singer’s hand in his and said, “I’m terribly sorry, you know,” under his breath. “I am.”

“What for?”

“… Well,” the brunet said, squeezing the hand more firmly. “I wasn’t always a good friend to you.”

The raven-haired man rolled his eyes, withdrawing his hand. He could do well without such soppy sentiments.

“You’re a sentimental motherfucker, aren’t you, Depp?”

The older man gave a shrug of his shoulders.

“I’ve got a daughter. Of course I am.”

“Remember who you’re talking to,” he said gruffly, though not without a hint of amusement.

“The God of fuck?” Johnny asked, eyes gleaming. “Or the Antichrist?”

He smirked. “In the flesh.” 

Once Johnny had cheered him up enough to feel relatively good about leaving him to his own devices, they said their goodbyes. As Landon took them away from the vast property, the information started settling in his brain like a bullet slow to explode. For some reason, it made him feel even more sorry for himself. More depressed. Wasn’t lovesickness, of course. They’d reconciled a long, long time ago, and regardless of that, it wasn’t like Johnny was interested in screwing his sorry ass anymore. No, scratch that. Johnny wasn’t interested in screwing his _fat_ ass.

_Fuck it all,_ he told himself, a sudden rage welling up from the depths of his heart. It was enough to make him clench his fists and bite the inside of his cheek. _I don’t really need anyone. Besides, all people do is leave. Why would I want that?_ And for a moment, he convinced himself he could take on the world. Him versus the world. He could do it. In fact, he had to, because once his mother was dead, his father would shrivel up like a plant without someone to water it, and then he’d have no one. No one.


	2. The Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments :) They really motivate me.

September 25, 2016

Los Angeles, California

He had the strangest dream he was taking a piss out in the garden, naked, and he was having an unremarkable conversation with his elderly neighbor, something about the bright blue tomatoes he’d apparently planted on the roof. As he woke up, he groaned and rubbed his face. His brain was sluggish, his body heavy with sleep, and it took him a moment to register that his sheets were damp. Had he been sweating like a pig again? He frowned at the thought. That only happened when he’d been having some particularly terrible nightmares – usually about being back in his grandfather’s basement in Canton – and he couldn’t recall any such nightmares. Then he _smelled_ it.

 _No._ His eyes widened in alarm. _No, that can’t be it._

The forty-seven-year-old man slowly pulled back the covers, his heart in his throat. The distinctive smell of ammonia grew stronger, assailing his nostrils. When he touched the mattress, feeling the lukewarm wetness that could only be urine, he muttered, “Fuck,” over and over before his brain caught up with him. He scrambled out of bed and simply stood there with his feet glued to the rug, too overwhelmed by the foul discovery to move, still hoping he wasn’t fully awake yet and this was all part of a nightmare. 

“… Fucking hell,” he muttered, letting out a deep sigh. He then switched on the lamp and winced as he saw the big dark spot on the pale blue sheets that spoke for itself.

 _Am I senile too?_ he wondered sadly, his hand wandering down to his underpants. The fabric was, of course, damp and confirmed that an accident had indeed taken place. A momentary look of discomfort crossed his face. _Jesus fucking Christ, I must be._

Lily White meowed from the doorway, which he usually left ajar.

“I know, I know,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Your Dad’s an idiot.” 

At that, she said nothing, she just stared at him for a second before traipsing down the stairs, clearly worried – and a little repulsed. She was probably wondering where one could get cat litter for humans. He clearly needed it, after all.

Brian, once he’d pulled himself together, hastily tore the bedlinen off the mattress – and the soiled duvet – and carried it outside. There, he proceeded to sprinkle some lighter fuel over the foul-smelling pile and lit it on fire. Once engulfed by flames, his erratic heartbeat ceased a little. The flames took away the evidence of the small mishap, but the sting of humiliation was still unbearable. He was a grown man. Grown men don’t wet the bed. Now, peeing oneself while disgustingly drunk, that’s one thing, but in a state of sobriety? He supposed the sleeping pills were to blame. They knocked him out good. Maybe his body hadn’t been able to rouse on its own the way it should. Still, it was harrowing. He couldn’t help but to hate himself a little bit.

Ten minutes later, he stood in the shower, removing all traces of urine – and shame. It was only six a.m. but he couldn’t go back to sleep after that whole ordeal. He needed to work off his anxiety and walked aimlessly around the house until his heartbeat was steady again. The wet mattress upstairs wasn’t appealing, so he sat down in front of the TV and watched a braindead sitcom, if only to take his mind off the incident, and promptly fell asleep. Four hours later, he came to in his armchair, feeling rather confused. When he remembered why he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, which he hadn’t done in more than a decade, he groaned and walked up the stairs to have another shower. Didn’t feel clean enough yet.

The water felt good. He scrubbed his skin, hoping the smell wouldn’t linger. Urine had a very distinct scent, after all, that of ammonia. Hoo-fucking-ray, right?

When he eventually stepped out of the shower, he avoided his own reflection in the mirror, as had become a habit of his. He reached for the towel and dried himself off, trying not to think about how that towel wouldn’t fit around his waist. There was no great mystery behind it. A year ago, he’d weigh himself every morning on the bathroom scale, but now? Now he just glared at it, aware that it’d tell him, ‘Get a fitness instructor,’ and he wasn’t about to.

Half an hour later, he found himself stood in the kitchen.

 _Your diet’s garbage_ , he scolded himself lightly as he bit into a toast that was all about cheese – three different types of cheese, actually – and bread as doughy and white as his uncomely collection of stomach rolls. It did, of course, feel like heaven. No amount of self-loathing was going to convince him to eat porridge for breakfast. The thought made him feel smug somehow. He was many things, but at least he wasn’t one of those fitness crazed zombies. Fuck that.

_Bzzt bzzzt! Bzzt bzzzt!_

He frowned as he heard his iPhone vibrating on the table, briefly wondering if it was his father. When he glanced down and saw that it was Tony, his manager, he brought the cup to his lips and relished the rich taste of his morning coffee. If it was important, he’d call again, he decided. And not even a full minute later, he did.

“Yes,” was all the singer said, his tone walking the line between annoyance and disinterest.

“It’s important,” the younger man snapped. Brian rolled his eyes and took a noisy slurp of his coffee, smacking his lips before saying, “ _Is_ it?”

“Yes! I’d think you, of all people, would know–” he interrupted himself, staying silent for a moment. Then, before Brian could hang up on him for ‘being boring’, he said, “What, you haven’t heard the news?”

“What news?” There was now a definite thread of annoyance in his voice. “It’s not like I google myself every day, you know.”

His manager drew in a sharp breath. Brian could picture him on the other end of the line, his jaw clenched and his skin a lovely shade of red. For as long as he’d known Tony, his face had been set in a perpetual scowl, and according to him, there was always some sort of huge crisis that had to be dealt with. But really, when you’re Marilyn Manson, your manager receives a thousand calls every week regarding your ‘misdemeanor’. At one point or another, you stop taking it seriously. 

“Jessicka Addams wrote a Facebook status yesterday,” he informed him, and Brian, who hadn’t thought about Jack Off Jill in what felt like centuries, wrinkled his forehead. Whatever it was their vocalist had written, it couldn’t be true, and at the very least, it couldn’t be relevant. 

“… So?”

“She accused Twiggy of rape – and more.” Again, he gave on of his standard long-suffering sighs, almost as if Brian was to blame. “It’s a mess, Manson. It’s a bloody mess.”

The raven-haired man snickered, though not in an amused manner, and said, “Who gives a fuck? They were both disgusting junkies back then,” before licking his fingers. Ketchup was everywhere. Looking down at his new jeans, he muttered a foul word under his breath as he noticed the red stain on his knee. “No one cares if you’re beating the living shit out of your girlfriend if you’re high on meth, especially when she’s also high on meth.”

Third sigh. “You’re forgetting something important here.”

“Am I?”

“Tell me you didn’t miss the whole ‘Me Too Movement’, Manson.”

That caught his attention, his brows bumping together. Rose had been part of all that, hadn’t she?

“Bullshit,” was all he had to say. Jeordie wasn’t exactly Harvey Weinstein. 

“ _Manson_ , we haven’t got a choice,” Tony said, and he now sounded vaguely apologetic, an emotion Brian didn’t associate him with. “Jeordie’s got to go. I’m sorry.”

Insert awkward pause.

“… Manson?”

“This is how I see it,” Brian said in a clipped tone, a sudden surge of anger rushing through his veins. “She’s made a rape accusation against Twigs – something that happened what, twenty years ago? Unless this goes to court, which I doubt it will, she doesn’t have a case. If anything, _she_ ’s the one who’s tarnished _his_ reputation-”

“That’s exactly what she’s done,” Tony agreed. “And it’s a PR nightmare.”

“Well, you’re my manager,” he said gruffly. “Deal with it.”

“I’m not a magician-”

The singer let out a mirthless laugh and said, “Well, re-educate yourself,” in a brisk, dismissive tone. Tony started protesting, but Brian hung up on him before he could catch any of it. He was too angry to be reasonable; hanging up was he most rational thing he’d done all morning. He had to pour himself another generous cup of coffee to calm down. Still, the notion of firing Jeordie – without a conviction – was preposterous. How Tony could’ve suggested such a thing was beyond him. He knew they’d been best friends since the dawn of time. Hell, he even considered Jeordie to be more of a brother than a friend or colleague. But when it dawned on him that he didn’t really know whether Jessicka had been lying or not, he grew tense. What was more, he wasn’t sure he knew _why_ she would even lie about something so far-fetched. She had been a weirdo, not much different from the rest of their little gang, but she hadn’t been crazy. No, Jessicka had – in comparison to the other women in his life – been selfless and kind. And as far as he knew, she was clean now. Clean and sane.

 _What if he did it?_ he asked himself, biting down on his lower lip. _And fucking hell, what if he meant to do it?_

In all fairness, he couldn’t remember much from those days, just bits and pieces, and he didn’t have the insight to make an educated decision. He’d have to locate the man in question and interrogate him.

* * *

Pogo, who now went by his birth name ‘Stephen’, a fact which had eluded the singer for the better part of a year, sat with his arms folded across his chest and wore a deep-set frown on his face. The last twenty-four hours of his life had been a living hell, and Jeordie, who was at the epicenter of the disaster, sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, his head slumped against the wall. Pogo – _Stephen_ – kept his eyes fixed on him. Brian, who sat on the couch on the opposite side of the table, looked exhausted. He _was_ exhausted. Jeordie, because he had been higher than Mount Everest throughout the 90s, couldn’t remember shit, and the conversation, which felt more and more like an actual interrogation, was going nowhere.

“Twigs, come on,” Brian said with a sigh, doing his best to coax an answer out of the bassist.

“… I-I don’t remember,” he said, repeating himself. “I don’t.”

Brian sighed. Pogo fixed him with a glare.

“That bitch only has herself to blame,” he grumbled, though he didn’t elaborate. Behind the aggression, he was just as scared and as horrified as they were. The fact that Jeordie had barely slept since Jessicka had dropped the bomb was probably what had him so agitated, and when Brian opened his mouth to argue, he tightened his already white-knuckled grip on his beer bottle and said, “As if _she_ was sober, Mazz,” silently willing him to argue with him.

The singer shook his head, uninterested in starting a fight.

“None of us were,” he eventually said.

“No,” Pogo agreed.

“But we can’t defend ourselves by saying ‘I don’t remember’, can we now? That explanation’s got Kevin Spacey all over it – and with this stupid ass ‘me too’ campaign, that’s just as good as explosive diarrhea.”

Pogo glared at him without blinking, saying, “But he doesn’t remember.” 

Both men turned to look at Jeordie, who kept swallowing nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“… Stephen,” the bassist said.

“Yeah?”

“I want to talk to Mazz alone for a few minutes.”

Stephen’s expression went from angry to alarmed in a heartbeat. Words of protest danced on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them begrudgingly, letting out a meager, “Alright.” As he left the room, Jeordie bit down on his lower lip, tears shimmering in his eyes. He was fully aware that Stephen felt betrayed, and the guilt rose like bile in his throat, but he swallowed it back down, determined not to have a full-fledged nervous breakdown on top of everything else.

“Twigs-”

“I’ve got nothing to say, really,” he whispered hoarsely, cutting the singer short. “But I… I’m not an idiot. I-I see where this is going.” He drew in a sharp breath and tore his gaze from the wall. Their eyes met briefly before Jeordie looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “I’ve got to go,” he decided, and Brian could hear the despair lacing his words. If he quit the band, people would assume that Jessicka was right and he got what he had coming. If he didn’t quit the band, people would assume Brian didn’t give a fuck – and that they were all evil molesters. Well, that would’ve been fine with him about fifteen years ago, but they lived in a different world now. If you weren’t politically correct, you were about as bad a human being as Hitler, and while he wasn’t exactly known to be a very nice person, he wasn’t insensitive to the point of committing genocide. 

… But was he just going to give in to peer pressure? It’d mean throwing Jeordie under the bus to save his own skin, and that just didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t fair!

 _What, are you a coward?_ he asked himself, and the thought filled him with fiery rage, the kind that turns your blood to gasoline just waiting to catch fire. _This is your best friend! Fuck that cunt._

“You don’t have to do this,” he said with conviction. “We can go to court.”

Jeordie kept his gaze fixed on a nail in the wall, trying to recall the details of the painting that had once been there. It was easier than coming up with a response, and what could he say? Feeling lost, he started chewing on a cuticle, his mind going blank.

“Twigs,” the singer said.

“… No-o.” Jeordie shook his head, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. “We’re, uh, we’re not going to court, Mazz. We’re not.”

Upon hearing this, a disbelieving snort escaped the singer. Had the shithead lost his wits altogether? “We’ve got to do something, Twigs,” he said sternly, trying to add force to his words. The fact that he couldn’t made him frown – hadn’t he always been imposing? But this wasn’t about the band as much as it was about his friend of countless years. It was below the belt. He felt, for the first time in half a lifetime, powerless – and scared, really fucking scared.

“Yeah, we have to do something,” the younger man agreed and drew his lower lip between his teeth.

“I’ll-”

“I quit,” Jeordie said, and the way he said it – with such finality – left him speechless.

“You…?” he eventually said, and his best friend offered him a sad, sad smile.

“I quit the band.”

“… What? No.” Brian shook his head. “You’re not quitting, dickhead.”

“I am.”

“Don’t be an idiot! She can’t possibly win.” He wanted to slam his fist on the table but didn’t. Instead, he gave a bitter laugh and said, “I won’t let her – I’ll make her life hell until she takes it all back. I’d rather _pay_ the bitch than to let you go, Twigs.” 

Jeordie sighed and buried his face in his hands. For a moment there, he looked guilty as sin and seemed like he’d sooner disappear through a hole in the ground than continue this conversation.

“I probably did it, you know,” he whispered in a voice that brimmed over with self-hatred, confusion and defeat, and as he said it, a couple of tears rolled down his cheeks. He had always been a small and thin man, but now he looked absolutely transparent. Jeordie, who had always taken up so much space with his bubbly personality, was reduced to a shell of his former self, and the transformation had happened overnight, just like a bloody avalanche. Brian wanted to punch him as much as he wanted to hug him, and in the end, he just sat there, feeling boneless and unable to speak coherently, so pissed off and sad he didn’t know up from down anymore.

“I-I… I was so fucked up back then, Mazz,” the bassist continued – and Brian knew. All of them had been ‘fucked up’ back then. He wasn’t sure they could be held accountable for any of the shit they’d done because none of it had been intentional. “And I remember close to nothing. But I never really loved her, you know? So maybe I did it. Maybe…” He swallowed hard, his jaw twitching. “Maybe I raped her, Mazz.”

The singer let out a harsh breath and said nothing; his head was full of fog and his mouth felt drier than sand. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but it did. It did.

 _I can’t save him_ , he knew. _I can’t fucking lie._

“… So,” Jeordie began, his voice almost breaking. “I’ll quit the band.”

Brian nodded. He felt defeated.

“Think things through,” he eventually said, and his voice came out low, cold. To Jeordie, this signaled that the singer – his best friend – was disappointed. Maybe because of the incident in Hildesheim they hadn’t ever talked about. Maybe because he hadn’t ever treated Jessicka right. But even if he was disappointed, he said, “We don’t have to make a statement yet, and we’re not gonna make a rash decision. Take your time, Twigs. Alright?”

The bassist wrapped his arms around himself and said, “We’ll see,” with a sad smile on his face. Pogo – _Stephen_ – popped in a few moments after, but Brian hardly noticed his presence in the room, which somehow felt drained of oxygen. All he could think of was how it would be to make music, to be on tour and to perform without Jeordie and Stephen both, because if he knew anything for sure, it was that Stephen wouldn’t stay on board without his lover. And he understood that, but still, was it even Marilyn Manson anymore if he had to hire two new band members? If he had to leave behind his best companions in life? The thought made him panic, made him feel angry, and he balled his hands into tight fists, so tight his knuckles were white, the skin stretched out.

… But if he’d done the deed, the crime, he’d had it coming, hadn’t he? Brian felt conflicted, felt lost.

 _Hildesheim_ , he thought, swallowing thickly, and the blood in his veins turned to ice.

 _‘… You want this,’_ a disembodied voice whispered against his ear, and he could _feel_ the warm, moist breath of a memory he thought he’d suppressed, a ghost.

_‘Say you want this…”_

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ghost away. For a minute or two, all he could hear was the sound of his blood thundering in his ears, but even if the ghost had disappeared, the mental images lingered. White tiles and drops of red. The make-up wipes in the trash can. When he eventually snapped out of it, he lifted his gaze and saw that Stephen and Jeordie were holding one another. The sight made his heart clench – and he felt a little bit sick to his stomach. It took him about a second to recognize the feeling as a twinge of jealousy, which made him want to laugh.

 _Stupid sentimental heart,_ he told himself, because if there were two people in the world he shouldn’t be jealous of right then and there, it was Jeordie and Stephen.

 _What, do you want someone to come save you, Brian?_ he mocked himself. Just then, the couple kissed, and he realized with a sinking heart that yes, he desperately wanted to be saved. But the feeling gave way to a more desperate feeling, and that feeling was grief.

 _I’m losing Mom and Dad,_ he thought, his head spinning. _I’m losing Twigs and Pogo. Who’s next?_ And right then and there, it seemed like the universe was taking the piss out of him, because no one was next in line. He wished he believed in God, desperately wanting someone to blame, but in the end, the only person who was at fault was himself.


	3. A Grave for Every Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I haven't updated in ages... Sorry :)
> 
> Thank you for the comments <3

November 12, 2016

Los Angeles, California

It was November and the autumnal orgasm of colors had died, its blood the rotted leaves on the ground beneath the trees, and the sky a monotone gray color specked with blue, but the casket in the ground was black. She had wanted to be buried here, not in Canton, Ohio, and he had obliged. Next to her gravestone was grass he had paid for. When the time was right, he and his Dad would be in the ground next to her, and the entire Warner family would be gone, a thing of the past, and the thought filled him with some kind of indignation. They had always been a close-knit family, even when his father had been absent-minded and traumatized by the Vietnam War. Even when Barb had barely remembered her own name. Even now, as they were reduced to father and son, and he would never again feel her hand on his cheek, hear her say ‘I love you, dear’ or eat at her table. Somewhere, under a layer of dirt and grass and leaves and flowers, the body rotted.

“She loved you, Son,” Hugh said, and the way he said it indicated that he loved him too, and Brian nodded and put his arms around the elderly man, feeling young and vulnerable after the long, long day they’d suffered through. When the hug ended, he saw that tears had spilled from his father’s eyes, but he didn’t sob or cry, no, he wasn’t a fruit, wouldn’t cry openly, but he didn’t dry his tears either, just blinked rapidly. Thought about the day he’d been born, about the glee, Barb’s smile and happy tears. Now they were here. The tears weren’t happy anymore, and he’d lost his wife. He’d lost her.

“I know, Dad.”

Hugh nodded. “We should’ve had more kids,” he whispered hoarsely and thought about how lonely Brian was, childless and without a woman in his life. “I told her that when you turned ten – that it wasn’t too late – but she laughed it off, you know. Said ‘why should we when the one we have is perfect?’ and I couldn’t argue. But I should have.”

Brian smiled weakly – tiredly – and said, “She probably had her hands full.”

“Barb?” his father wrinkled his forehead, thinking about how she had doted on Brian. When he’d flown the nest, she had wept bitterly for weeks on end, and then, in the fog of her grief, she had seen Jesus in a vision, who had reassured her that he would keep an eye on Brian. After that, she hadn’t cried anymore, had been serene, and the many pet rats had kept her busy.

“Oh, not Barb,” he said wistfully, thinking about decades long gone. “She could’ve had twenty kids.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not too late, you know,” Hugh said, and he sounded hopeful. “You can have kids of your own, Son.”

He shook his head. “It’s not for me.”

“I know.” Hugh smiled sadly. “It’s just that it’s the best thing I ever did.”

“Love you, Dad,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, with grief and gratitude and a million other things. The expression on the older man’s face mirrored his, and while he couldn’t communicate his feelings, hadn’t ever been able to, his eyes spoke volumes. Without his Barb, the light of his life, little could guide him through the darkness of old age, which seemed like a sterile corridor full of closed doors, but his child was still there, in the flesh, and looking at him, his eyes shone.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Son,” he said and put his hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Brian swallowed nervously and said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” afraid that the tears might come.

“Have a good night’s sleep.” 

They parted ways, and as he turned around and approached the car that waited patiently in the driveway, Hugh watched him with watery eyes, watched him and remembered the first time he’d ever left home. It hadn’t been as emotional, not for him anyhow, but Barb had been devastated, of course, and he’d held her in his arms and said, ‘He’s all grown up, you know,’ and she’d pulled back, tears and mascara streaking down her pretty, round face, and said, ‘But he’s my baby,’ and yes, he’d always be her baby. Heck, even now. It didn’t matter if she was in heaven or reincarnated, he was her son, one of the marks she’d left on the world. He smiled as he saw the car leaving the driveway and closed the door, and thirty seconds later, when he walked toward the living room, he caught a glimpse of one of the photographs that adorned the wall in the hallway, the one that depicted them on Christmas Eve in the early 70s. Barb kissed Brian’s chubby cheek and held him protectively in her arms. They were so alike, the two of them, but they’d always argued against it and claimed that he was like a spitting image of his father, and sure, appearance-wise they were like two cars from the same factory, but personality? Nah. He was his mother’s son.

_And that’s good_ , he thought and went to the fridge, in dire need of a beer. But as he sat down in the oversized armchair and felt the silence wrap around him like a straitjacket, he let the tears flow.

Brian sat in the backseat of the Mercedes and noticed that Landon was staring again. He grunted, saying, “What are you looking at?” a little more brusquely than necessary. The younger man had the decency to blush, aware that his behavior had been less than professional, and mumbled something incoherent about looking at traffic, a lousy excuse at best, but Brian couldn’t be bothered to respond. On that particular day, he hated everything and wanted to punch everyone, wanted to set fire to the world and watch it burn. If he opened his mouth, he’d explode, fire Landon, make sure to drag his reputation through the mud, and then he’d feel bad about it. But he hated being villainized by idiots, now more than ever. So much of his life had been poured into this, into his career, and he hadn’t even had the time to talk to his dying mother on the phone, to pay attention to her, and now it was too late.

_Was it worth it?_ he asked himself, and no, it really wasn’t. The price for fame, in his case, was being scapegoated by every braindead motherfucker who knew his name. And he’d chosen that over his mother.

_And now I’m alone_ , he thought and watched the cityscape as they drove toward the empty mansion, toward the spacious rooms riddled with expensive furniture, and, of course, the huge canopy bed. For all that he was worn out, the thought of going to bed scared the living shit out of him. Couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t been able to, not since she’d died.

“Mr. Manson?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t intend to be rude,” the man said, his voice low and measured.

The singer gave a curt nod and said, “It’s fine.”

_But nothing’s fine._ Anxiety was like gasoline in his guts. He didn’t want to be alone, not tonight, and yeah, he’d contemplated calling some of his ‘girlfriends’, but the prospect of fucking some twenty-five-year-old slut whose life revolved around fitness and twerking wasn’t enticing. Right now, sex was the last thing he wanted, but he couldn’t call a girl, tell her he’s lonely and expect comfort beyond rolling around in the sheets. If it hadn’t been for the scandal, he would’ve called Jeordie, would’ve asked him to come over to watch some old horror movie, but Stephen had dragged him along to an undisclosed location in the middle of nowhere. They just couldn’t bear to be in the limelight, he’d said, and Jeordie hadn’t said a word, hadn’t been able to. He’d started using tranquilizers and was as dopey as he’d been in the 90s. Couldn’t deal with the stress. Brian wondered if he’d ever recover, but it’d take time, he knew that. Good thing he had a husband whose sole concern in life was his well-being. Stephen was unreasonably selfless these days, but then again, before Jeordie had entered the picture, he’d been an insufferable brat with a severely nihilistic outlook on life. Jeordie had given him a purpose. Now it was the other way around.

_The band will never be the same_ , he told himself, and it was true. _Nothing will._ His eyes burned with wetness as he considered throwing in the towel, because even if he could summon the courage to hire new people, make another album and travel the world, his vision was dead, drained of all inspiration and motivation.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped inside the shower and cried. Then he punched the mirror, punched the walls and whatever else stood between him and his misplaced anger. His knuckles bled. He didn’t give a fuck, he just went to bed, just hid under the covers and pretended to be asleep. When Lily White curled up next to him, purring, her fur soft and warm, his relief was so bittersweet he cried a second time, and then he dozed off, exhausted.

* * *

November 13, 2016

Los Angeles, California

Johnny sat in the living room of his new house, his thoughts as dark and sad as the weather. The house had been pricey, of course, and the garden was huge and there was a pool. But where money could buy him a large house with a pool, it couldn’t buy him a home, and the house wasn’t homely. Wasn’t homely at all.

_Without a family behind its walls, what purpose does a house even serve?_ he asked himself, shaking his head. Johnny was only one man, one man who had fathered two children, both currently in their teens, and as of late, he was a divorcé. For some incomprehensible reason, he wasn’t able to enjoy his freedom as much as he should. On the one hand, their marriage had been intense and turbulent and chaotic. On the other hand, it had been safe. Predictable. Warm. They had sacrificed much for their family, for their children, and while they had not loved one another, they had loved the opportunity to watch their children grow up in a stable home, and they, in spite of their differences, had made that happen.

_The kiddies had a nice and tidy upbringing,_ he thought, smiling as he remembered the years in France _. And alright, Vanessa and I weren’t the best of friends, but we did right by Lily-Rose and Jack._

Even at the worst of times, he had reminded himself that, as the old saying goes, ‘the end justifies the means’, and that meant making sacrifices. As a parent, you want to shield your kids from the absurd and childish facts of life, and you want to shield them from their parents’ loveless marriage, because in the end, their safety and well-being is more crucial to your own quality of life than the state of your marriage. But after years and years of fucking the same woman, of shouting at the same woman, of pretending to be happy with the same goddamn woman, you’re the one who’s let down. You’re told you aren’t exciting anymore, that you can’t get her wet anymore, that you can’t satisfy her anymore, and ultimately, that you aren’t supportive and that you never were. And the worst part of it is that you should be over the moon about the divorce, about not having to bore yourself to death and live that same repetitive day on repeat, but you’re not.

_It’s the emptiness,_ Johnny thought and picked up his glass of wine, sipping it daintily. _It’s maddening, isn’t it?_

He stared out the window and thought about how quiet it was. All that could be heard besides the patter of raindrops against the windowpanes was the sound of traffic. That’s LA for you. He rolled his eyes and asked himself why on earth he had chosen to settle down in LA – of all the places he could’ve chosen – and realized that there were, of course, reasons. Some were more rational than others.

_Could’ve bought a house in France,_ he reminded himself. _Could’ve stayed closer to the kiddies – when they’re staying with her. But I don’t want her nearby, hovering over me. Don’t want her eyes on me._

And just like that, the illusion of a, well, satisfactory marriage crumbled. The thought made him grit his teeth. They had wasted so much time. Well, _she_ had wasted _his_ time – and then she had scrapped him like a broken sex toy and purchased a newer, more exciting model, one that ‘took her seriously’ and aroused her. He snorted. As if she hadn’t blackmailed him into staying with her in the first place. As if their marriage had been real. And now his kiddies were in France with her and his house was empty, bereft of laughter and music and all those other things that had kept him relatively sane over the last decade. 

His iPhone started vibrating. The annoying sound, which often implied that _someone_ wanted _something_ from him, immediately broke his chain of thoughts. He glanced down at the screen and frowned as he saw that it was Jeordie, someone he hadn’t talked to at all since Brian had gotten engaged to the burlesque queen. Pity that hadn’t worked out. In spite of what Brian had to say about it, parenthood would’ve done him a couple of favors.

“Hello?” he said, cursing himself for sounding as insecure as he felt.

“Sparrow,” he heard a familiar voice say – a voice that most certainly didn’t belong to the bassist. Johnny’s frown only deepened, and when the person said nothing further, he gave a quiet, affirmative, “Yes,” and got up from the armchair, suddenly feeling restless.

“… It’s about Manson,” he informed him curtly. Then he gave a brief laugh that sounded very unamused. “Well, obviously – isn’t like I’ve got any business with _the_ Jack Sparrow, is it.”

Johnny drew in a breath. That man had a way of getting on his nerves. “What about him, Pogo?”

“Well, his mom just passed away, in case his highness hasn’t told you. I’ve got enough shit on my plate right now, so I haven’t got the time to check up on him – he’s probably being a drama queen-”

“Hey, hold your horses,” the brunet said, frowning. “What’s this about Marilyn?”

He could practically hear the keyboardist rolling his eyes.

“He isn’t answering my calls.”

“Barb is…” He hesitated, feeling strangely sad. “She’s gone?”

“Yup.”

“And you haven’t gone to his house?”

Pogo let out a contemptuous snort and said, “I’ve got my hands full right now. That fucking twat’s ruined my life, you know, and for what, fifteen minutes of fame? It’s a tragedy, but, well, yawn.” There was a brief pause, and Johnny thought the other man sounded uncharacteristically quiet – or at the very least, less obscene than usual. “All I can do is pick up the pieces, you know? And Manson, well, he’s probably depressed, crying his eyes out, but at this point, who isn’t?”

“Ah, well.” The actor walked over to the window and stared at the garden, at the raindrops that grew into large puddles, the kind of puddles his kiddies had loved, but now they were teenagers. Then he remembered that he should respond and said, “I can assure you that I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Pogo.” But that wasn’t something new. “What woman are you referring to?”

The other man fell silent for a moment before saying, “You don’t watch TV, do you, Sparrow?”

“Ah, no. Guilty as charged.”

“Well.” Pogo sighed, sounding vaguely apologetic – or was he sad? “Just – just check up on Manson, alright?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Good.”

“I-”

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Johnny put his iPhone down on the table, had another sip of his red wine, and considered the brief exchange of words. How come the psychotic son of a bitch had decided to call him? He knew he wasn’t particularly fond of him, and the feeling was mutual.

_He must be gravely concerned._ Another sip of wine. _No wonder._

Barb was dead. Johnny had met her once – at the birthday party – and then again a couple of months ago, but she hadn’t been herself. It was the disease, such a dreadful disease, and Brian, who had realized that his mother was in fact more dead than alive, had broken down in an empty room. Johnny had wanted to comfort him, of course, but the singer, for all that he was sentimental, didn’t like being ‘babied’. Even if that was the case, he left his glass of wine by the armchair and got dressed in a hurry. Yes, he had recently rediscovered the pleasures of walking around unrobed all day long, for the sole reason that he could. 

_The benefits of being single and without children to look after_ , he thought to himself, and the taste it left in his mouth was bittersweet. As he reached the hallway, he gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror, head to toe, and he chuckled at the messy I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hairdo and patted it back in place. When he saw that all was functional, he left.

* * *

_“You don’t have to go to school today, honey,” his mother said, her back turned to him as she put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. She wore that A-lined pink dress with the sunflower pattern, the one she had made herself, and her hair was big and blonde, so typical of her. Her shoes were flat and comfortable. She wore the yellow apron._

_“Can we watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?” he asked, and looking down, he saw that he was himself again, a thin man in his mid-thirties, and he wore heavy platform boots and leather pants. His mother, who was now washing off the counter, said, “Of course, honey,” her voice feathery and sweet._

_“Mom,” he said, suddenly gripped by a strong sense of foreboding. “Mom, turn around.”_

_“Yes, honey.” She didn’t turn around._

_“Mom,” he repeated, now breaking a sweat. His mother’s plump body became painfully thin and her skin saggy, like a piece of cloth draped over a tree, her ribs and spine jutting out like sharp branches. “Mom, turn around – Mom!”_

_He reached out to touch her, but the moment his fingers brushed against her arm, she fell into a heap of skin and bones on the floor, the sunflower dress abandoned next to it, and he saw her eyeballs turn into liquid, seeping from their sockets. She said, “Yes, honey,” before the round, red lips decayed like the rest of her and disappeared. Her jawbone separated from her skull. Around him, the kitchen started turning into his tour bus from back in the 90s. Jeordie sat there, grinning manically as if high out of his mind, and he said, “Let’s rape her fat ass,” and laughed like it was the funniest thing ever. “Let’s.”_

_“Mo-om!” he screamed. “Mom!”_

_For a second, everything went black._

_“Mom!” he heard himself yelling._

_“I’m here, honey.”_

_He woke up in his childhood bedroom. His mother sat by the bed, reading a book. She held the book directly in front of her face, making it impossible to catch a glimpse of her, and he reached out for her arm, desperate to touch her, to feel her. But the moment his fingertips grazed the fabric of her dress, she dissolved into butterflies that flew out the window. He ran outside, shouting and crying, and promptly collided with someone, someone so familiar, and he now saw himself from the outside, saw a ten-year-old with buck teeth, a bowl cut and freckles, and someone held his arms around him. It was Willy Wonka, and he said, “Marilyn, Marilyn! Wake up, you’re having a nightmare!” and the imagery dispersed like mist._

He woke up to find Johnny standing over him with a look of alarm on his face. The rest of the room was spinning, and he had difficulties remembering where he was, _when_ he was, and seeing Johnny was like a revelation, pulling him back into a dreamlike past. But then he felt it, how strange everything was. His limbs were heavy and sore, and his mind was sluggish with sleep and hurt like a bitch. Then he sensed that he’d been crying; his face was warm and damp and slick with mucus. Johnny was stroking his arm. He frowned. Why the fuck was Johnny in his house?

“Hey, are you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, staring at the actor, at his bow-shaped mouth. “Yeah,” he repeated with more confidence. He then realized that he was drenched in sweat, and he was warm, so fucking warm.

_Those damn sleeping pills,_ he cursed, heat rising to his face. _At least I didn’t piss myself._

“Jesus, Marilyn,” Johnny said, frowning. Then nervous laughter spilled from his lips. “I thought you were having a seizure of some kind.” His grip on him became firmer, and Brian was suddenly made aware of the hands that clutched at his shoulders. He also remembered that he was naked, that his fat, uncomely body was on display, and the realization was nauseating.

“Give me a minute, will you,” he muttered, his cheeks so red he probably looked like an overly ripe tomato. He felt like one too, his beer belly bulging out, swollen with fat and impossible to ignore. Good thing the duvet still covered the lower half of his body. Lately he’d gotten paranoid about the fact that his big belly made his dick seem smaller. It pissed him off. His dick was quite sizable, after all, and his physique just didn’t do him any justice. “I need to get dressed.”

Johnny nodded. He didn’t let go of him though, the warm fingers still pressed against his skin, holding him.

“Pogo called me-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the singer muttered sourly, closing his eyes. Out of respect for his mother, he had left his phone in the car and had forgotten about the darn thing altogether. He probably had about a hundred missed calls. “I can’t even go to my Mom’s funeral without offending people.”

“He wasn’t offended.”

“Pogo – _Stephen_ , fucking hell, he’s always offended these days. Thinks _I_ fired Twigs.”

“Marilyn,” Johnny said, looking very confused. “What are you on about?”

“Twig’s ex decided to jump on the ‘me too’ bandwagon-,” he stopped himself mid-sentence as if remembering something important. First of all, he wondered how Johnny could have missed the news, and then he wondered why he was telling _him_ any of this. Johnny was his friend, sure, but they weren’t close friends. Not anymore. That sparked another question: Why was he here, inside his house? To pity him? To relieve himself of his guilty conscience? The thought made him angry, so angry he clenched his fists and drew in a sharp breath, not sure if he could keep himself constrained.

“… Marilyn?”

He fixed the actor with a distrustful look and said, “Why the fuck are you here, Depp?”

“Ah, well.” Johnny smiled. He smiled! Brian wanted to hurl his fist at him, wanted to yell at him. “Like I said, your friend Pogo called me. Told me to check up on you because you weren’t answering his calls.”

The singer all but growled, and he was very conscious of the hand that that was somehow _still_ wrapped around his arm, against his clammy skin. It infuriated him. Why did everyone feel the need to baby him? He was allowed to grieve – to take his time – but it was as if everyone thought he was a porcelain doll, one that would break if they let it.

“That asshole.”

“He simply cares.” Johnny let go of him. “As do I. And I do wish you would’ve let me know.”

Brian looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“It’s none of your business,” he decided, and Johnny flinched. Hurt flickered across his face, but his features quickly softened. His eyes softened. In them, Brian saw pity.

“… You don’t have to go through this by yourself, Marilyn.”

The singer shook his head and stated that, “I _am_ on my own,” before pulling the duvet up to his chest, feeling vulnerable. Transparent. His hair, now slightly too long for the wide Mohawk he sported, fell into his eyes. Johnny, overcome by some kind of protective instinct, sat down next to him on the bed and brushed his tousled hair away from his face. As his fingertips made contact with warm skin, the actor felt his breath catch. Their eyes locked, and the moment felt tender, as if they could be honest. It lasted no longer than a second. Brian, who felt exposed and unnerved, armed himself with the usual doze of aggression and hissed, “Give me a minute, will you?” needing privacy. Needing time to pull himself together.

Johnny withdrew his hand and was quick to say, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“I might take a shower.”

“Your scent is rather mysterious, yes,” Johnny teased, not at all minding the evil eye he got in return. He walked over to the door, paused for a second and announced, “I might make us some lunch in the meantime – or brunch, is it?”

_Mischievous devil._ Again, he felt like delivering a hard, merciless blow to his pretty face. _I’m hardly in the mood for this – and he knows it._

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Make yourself at home, Depp.”

When the actor left, Brian located his wristwatch and almost yelped when he saw that it was 13:12 p.m. and he’d slept through the night and then some, courtesy of the sleeping pills. Outside, the sky was still gray and it was raining, something that wasn’t usual for LA. Two minutes later, as he went through his closet to find something to wear, he jumped back at the sight of a huge, white butterfly dead on the carpeted floor. The sight was so unsettling, he had to sit down for a minute, his mind a fucking mess.

_Oh, Mom,_ he thought regretfully, his lower lip trembling. _I never should’ve left._

* * *

They sat down at the dining table and ate in silence. Johnny had found a tragically empty fridge, with the exception of a wide variety of expensive European cheeses, and had subsequently laughed his ass off before texting his personal assistant, begging her to deliver sushi from his favorite restaurant. Brian had complained, but after the first bite, he’d shut his mouth. The breakfast sake also helped.

“You always do this,” Brian said, stabbing his fork into a sushi roll. It fell apart. He cursed.

Johnny arched a brow. “What?”

“Make me eat fish – and spicy stuff.”

“I also give you booze, so it isn’t all bad,” the actor pointed out, taking a sip of his sake. “Besides, I think you need some inspiration where food is concerned. Your diet seems rather… unbalanced.” He let out a chortle as he thought about the state of the fridge, about the countless truckles of cheese, and said, “I’ve never seen that much cheese all my life, and I’ve lived in France for more than a decade.” He’d actually taken a photo and sent it to his daughter, telling her, ‘Apparently this is the Antichrist’s food of choice,” to which she had replied, ‘LOL’ and a mouse emoji.

Brian reddened, slightly embarrassed, and said, “Bad habit, I guess.”

“We all have our vices. I smoke weed and drink one too many glasses of wine, but hey, at least we aren’t harming people.”

_And I’m fat,_ he thought sourly, painfully aware that Johnny had seen and probably counted all his stomach rolls.

He poured some Kikkoman over the sushi rolls and tried to use the chopsticks, but he failed spectacularly and groaned, annoyed. Johnny stared down at his plate, willing himself not to laugh, and the singer saw, could tell just by looking at him, and he blushed even more.

_You know what?_ _Fuck this shit._ He picked it up with his fingers, put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, wondering why he hadn’t done that before. It was less embarrassing than nearly stabbing yourself in the eye with a chopstick while getting soy sauce and wasabi all over your fanciest shirt. And Johnny had kids. He’d seen worse.

“I’ve missed this,” Johnny said out of the blue. 

“What –” the musician had some more sake “– watching me make a fool of myself while trying to use chopsticks?”

“No.” He gestured toward Brian with one hand, then at the table and said, “ _Us_. You know, us spending time together.”

The singer nodded. “I blame your ex-wife.”

“She’s a difficult woman,” Johnny agreed. “ _Was_. Isn’t my problem anymore.”

“Yeah.” Brian picked up another sushi roll and stuffed it into his mouth, his eyes widening as the wasabi worked its wonders. Some soy sauce dribbled down his chin, and Johnny handed him a napkin – it had become second nature, after all – and the rockstar raised a brow, looking unimpressed.

“I don’t love being babied, you know,” he commented, a twinge of annoyance lacing his words, but he accepted the napkin nonetheless and dabbed it across his mouth, wiping away the soy sauce.

“I’m not babying you.”

“You’re a father – it’s just how you are,” the musician pointed out, and the second he said it, he became motionless, thinking about Barb and the funeral and everything in between. His own father telling him he was his greatest achievement. It hurt, hurt because he’d never gotten the chance to tell her how much he appreciated her, how much he loved her, because while he’d been in Europe, the disease had just devoured her brain. The brunet sensed his despair, of course. His body language spelled it out for him, and while he waited for a reaction of some sort, waited for Brian to speak, the younger man just stared down at his plate, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

_No crying,_ he told himself sternly. _Get a grip, Brian. You’re a grown man – you’re not gonna cry._

“… You’re allowed to feel sad,” the actor reminded him. Brian let out a harsh laugh, though it was obvious that he was trying to keep himself from breaking down, from crying like the big baby he was, and Johnny took his hand and said, “You’re allowed to grieve. It’s only natural, Marilyn.”

The void inside his chest started filling with anger, and something inside of him snapped, something he’d been trying to avoid for weeks. He abruptly got up from the table, their glasses falling over, spilling sake everywhere, and Johnny grabbed a napkin and tried to salvage the tablecloth, but when his eyes shot up from the table and saw that Brian advanced toward him, his eyes black, he stopped what he was doing and just stood there, paralyzed. He’d never seen him look so… inhuman, like a demon out for blood.

“Why are you here?” Brian wanted to know, glaring down at the smaller man. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“We’re friends, Marilyn.”

The singer laughed mirthlessly, something desperate and sad and angry clawing at his chest. If anyone had walked out on him one time too many, it was Johnny, and it wasn’t a secret.

“Friends?” he echoed, voice low but hard. “You’re only my friend when you want something – you know that, right?”

“Things are different now,” the actor said quietly, still staring into the dark, dark eyes that burned with rage, with grief and disgust alike. And he deserved to be angry, Johnny knew as much, but this anger, this outburst, wasn’t aimed at him. He was just there, breaking his isolation, and he deduced that after having aimed that anger at himself for so long, it seemed justified to aim it at the only other person who was present, who had dared to enter the cave of the dragon, so to speak. It was convenient.

“You’re a coward,” Brian spat at him.

“I’ve never stated otherwise.”

That quieted him for a split second, and then he said, “You just say that so you don’t have to own up to your shitty behavior,” voice breaking low.

“Well, I am sorry, Marilyn. Truly, I am.”

Again, Brian felt like he’d been tongue-tied, and it didn’t humor him. Johnny always said the right things, and then he went ahead and _did_ all the wrong things. He didn’t deserve to be here, in his house, comforting him like he’d never been anything but a great friend, a pseudo brother, but that wasn’t the case. Him being here, it was a cruel prank. It never lasted. He always got the short end of the stick, because Johnny, while looking like your average knight in shining armor, was nothing but a pussy, and he certainly never let the door hit him on the way out.

“Yeah? You’re sorry?”

“Profoundly.”

In one quick stride, he closed the gap between them, towering over the actor like a skyscraper. 

“You always _leave_!” he snarled, gripping the shorter man’s shoulders hard, nails digging into his skin, and preceded to shake him like a ragdoll, but Johnny, who was immune to violent outbursts, remained level-headed and didn’t move an inch. Didn’t punch. Didn’t yell.

“You always fucking leave!” he repeated, his voice hoarse and breaking at the edges. “You – you son of a bitch, what do you _want_?” He stopped shaking him for a moment, watching his face intently, but all he could find was that darned compassion, that pity, and he hated it. More than anything, he wanted this to escalate, wanted to feel physical pain so that maybe something could hurt more than the grief and the loneliness he felt, but Johnny wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t fly off the handle.

“I don’t _want_ anything.”

“Everyone does!” he yelled, and then he was shaking him again, quite violently, his face distorted with uncontrollable rage, the kind that can damage a man for life. But Johnny had felt it many times before – he’d let that blind rage consume him – and he refused to give in.

“I-I…” Johnny tried to steady himself, afraid he might lose his balance.

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, knowing he had to put the fire out somehow. “I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, you’re sorry alright,” the younger man rasped, feeling tears in his eyes for the millionth time that week.

“P-please stop,” the actor said, pulling him out of his thoughts. Then he realized with a sinking heart what he’d been doing, and he immediately stopped shaking him. Stopped abusing him. His hands fell to his sides and he looked down at his feet, at the red and blue Persian rug that was now stained with sake, and somewhere invisible to the naked eye, blood. Johnny had bled on that rug a decade earlier. He’d punched him.

… And he’d subsequently sworn to never lay hands on another human being again.

He’d failed. He wasn’t better than Johnny, just a miserable piece of human garbage.

_No._ Brian drew in a sharp breath. _No…_

A panicked expression flittered across his features, his skin prickling. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. His heart was in his throat. The other man wore a worried expression on his face, an expression that said too much. Brian glanced out the window, unable to meet those eyes, and asked himself what had just happened, what had ticked him off, what had made him put his hands on Johnny and how it all related to his dead mother. But it wasn’t about his mother, not really, and he had to face the facts. He had become a lonely old man, and he was lashing out on the one friend who was strong enough to take it, but to what end? It was pitiful. Painful.

_I’m an idiot,_ he concluded. _A washed-up rockstar. A nobody._

_“_ … Fucking hell.” Fear stretched his voice, fear and guilt and all things horrible.

“Hey, it’s fine – I’m fine.”

“No,” Brian said, almost laughing. “No, it isn’t fucking fine. I hurt you.”

Johnny put a hand on his cheek, careful, so incredibly careful, and the singer melted into the touch, into the warmth of another being, of a person he trusted, and his rage retreated to its cave, bowing its ugly head in shame.

“It’s fine, alright? I deserve it. I wasn’t a particularly good man back then,” the brunet admitted, remembering how Vanessa had extracted his spine and pickled his balls. He couldn’t be bothered to stand up for himself – for the man he had claimed to love – and he had damned himself in the process, having unwillingly glued himself to her hip. After her pregnancy with Jack had been announced, or revealed, as it had happened, he hadn’t dared to misstep, to speak his mind. Vanessa had assured him that any continued affair with the rockstar would’ve resulted in her gaining full custody, and he couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t lose the kiddies. But even as they grew old enough to decide where they wanted to live, he hadn’t filed for a divorce. It’d been out of laziness. Habit. Predictability. Such a terrible truth.

“I haven’t always been kind to you, I recognize that and I’m deeply sorry, Marilyn. But know that I’ve always considered you a friend, one who’s dear to my heart.”

_And that’s why you’re here?_ he thought bitterly, the venom once again rushing through his veins, as thick and hot as molten lava. _To make yourself feel better?_

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

However tired and hateful the singer felt right then and there, the moment Johnny pulled back his hand, he yearned for his touch. Missed it. But he shouldn’t be feeling that way. Exhaling, he opened his eyes and drank in the sight of those brown eyes, those eyes he had peered into a million times and yet it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

He leaned his head on Johnny’s shoulder then. Didn’t know why, but the warmth and comfort did him good, and when he felt a hand on his lower back, his heartbeat picked up.

“… I’m here,” the actor said, his voice rough. “I promise.”

_Oh, you promise? That’s rich._

_But… people do change, don’t they?_ The thought set the butterflies inside his stomach on fire, and he felt a flare of emotion in his chest, something like bravery. 

“Johnny,” he began, and then, the moment he remembered that they weren’t in their 30s anymore, that he wasn’t the man he had once been, all courage fell away and he took a step back, the spell breaking. “I think you should leave.”

His eyes widened. “Marilyn-”

“No.” The singer sounded determined, more determined than he felt. “I think I need some time to process everything. These last few weeks…” he trailed off, rubbing his face with both hands. “I’m not myself. I just need to get my shit together, and I’m so sorry I…”

“Stop apologizing to me.” Johnny smiled, and he looked genuinely amused. “Don’t think Vanessa didn’t throw plates at me whenever she wasn’t happy.”

The corners of Brian’s mouth twitched upward, tentatively, because he knew it wasn’t actually a joke. “With or without food?” he wanted to know, and Johnny’s smile widened into a grin, clearly satisfied with himself. Not everyone could drag the King of Goth out of the depths of his darkness, after all, and he appreciated that smile enormously. He adored it. 

“Oh, a little bit of both.”

The singer nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“She’s a difficult woman,” Johnny said, as he often did, and Brian suppressed the urge to roll his eyes,

“Alright, I’ll… I’ll call you when I’m feeling less depressed.”

“Please do.”

Not five minutes later, he walked Johnny to the door and waited for his chauffeur to come pick him up. When they parted, they shook hands, and Brian couldn’t help but to think about that handshake. They’d never parted like that before, with a formal handshake, with stiff postures and stiff smiles, and he hoped that he hadn’t made an even bigger mess of things. Hoped Johnny hadn’t lied. But in the back of his head, that familiar voice kept whispering, ‘You’re among no one,’ and in spite of whatever reassuring words he’d been buttered up with, he knew the voice was right. The car left the driveway – Johnny waved him goodbye – and then he was alone. He felt restless, felt guilty, sad, and he made a beeline for the kitchen. A bottle of absinthe sat patiently in one of the cupboards. He uncorked the bottle and drank like he’d been stranded in Sahara for a week, drank until he felt clear-headed and sane, the glorious delusion of the artistic mind, and then, as he managed to drown his every sorrow, he passed out.


	4. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always late these days, heh. School's keeping me busy. Sorry about that!

November 23, 2016

Los Angeles, California

The new paintings were on the borderline between order and chaos, the underlying themes of mayhem and grief skirting around the non-figurative elements that were abstracted from the pink sunflower dress, corpses rotting in the ground and flowers of evil sprouting like weeds from the dirt. He was drunk on emotion and not absinthe, though he’d been on a hefty drinking binge since the day after the funeral. Getting sucked into the paint, into a world that demanded his full attention, had restored his sanity. He’d barricaded himself inside the atelier and had painted and painted and painted. He’d painted until he was too shaky to produce a straight line. At that point, he’d made ten paintings, all of them featuring his mother in some shape or form, but it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. He’d have to sell them though. Couldn’t bear to look at them.

 _Painting is like bleeding_ , he reflected and watched the blood of his heart smeared all over the once white canvases. _You bleed, you clot and then you heal. Picking at it will only make it bleed again._

He frowned and pulled up his tee-shirt, taking a long look at the profusion of scars that littered his chest and abdomen.

_You always end up picking at the scabs, don’t you?_

_Not today though. Not now._

He walked down the stairs and hurried inside the bathroom to take a piss. After, as he studied himself in the mirror, he let out a low grunt, not really recognizing the haunted face staring back at him. He hadn’t dyed his hair and the gray was beginning to show. His eyes were sunken and foreign, as if the death and despair had altered him, and he realized that yes, he was a changed man, motherless and depressed, and above all else, he was defeated. He rubbed his hands along his unshaved chin and let out a mocking laugh, asking himself, _Are you even Marilyn Manson anymore, Brian?_ And he didn’t really know the answer. All he knew was that now, more than ever before, he felt displaced.

A sudden noise stole his attention. Where was that damn phone? He frowned when he found it abandoned under a dirty towel. It let out a muted, ‘bzzt bzzzt!’, and he noticed Johnny’s name blinking on the screen. The actor had texted him every day after his visit, but he hadn’t responded, too stubborn and proud to be babied by his ex, by the self-proclaimed friend who was only there for him when it suited his busy schedule, and he’d avoided his phone altogether, just wanting to be left alone. But now he felt lonely. Depressed, even.

The phone stopped vibrating. He put it on the side of the sink and stared at for what felt like an eternity.

“Fuck this,” he muttered and got undressed. Half a minute later, he stood in the shower. As the hot, revitalizing water started sluicing through his hair, he let out a breath of relief and started singing ‘Man That You Fear’ to himself, a song he hadn’t sung in years. The words oozed from his mouth like pus from a wound, though his voice was low and gentle, caressing each line with thoughtful consideration. With the final line, ‘There’s no one left for you’, his pride, or whatever what left of it, flew out the window, and the tumorous grief in his heart split open, causing him to cry out, his voice hoarse and thick as he cursed. Then came the tears.

 _I don’t want to be alone_ , he thought anxiously and watched his own blotched and red face out of the corner of his eye, suddenly painfully aware of the fact that no one had caressed his cheek or hugged him or told him ‘I love you’ in such a long time. Then, as he pulled himself together, feeling pathetic and girly for wanting someone to just touch him, he dyed his hair black and shaved away the few days growth of stubble. He powdered his face and neck white and applied some black eyeshadow, eyeliner and red lipstick, restoring some sense of self. There was still something indefinable about the look in his eyes though, and he looked both drawn and tired. Still, getting rid of the gray felt good, and as he put on his purple shirt, he noted with a surprising sense of glee that he had lost a little bit of weight.

 _Stop eating and keep drinking_ , he told himself, though not without a slight trace of humor.

He picked up his iPhone and dialed Landon’s number.

“Mr. Manson?”

“You have to drive me to Johnny’s place - _now_ ,” he said sternly and immediately hung up, not wanting to hear the monotone ‘Yes, Mr. Manson’ that would undoubtedly follow.

* * *

Lily-Rose had her father’s eyes. She was rather short, very skinny and resembled her mother in a variety of ways, but she had her father’s eyes, and the moment he saw them, his breath hitched and he felt overcome by an emotion he hadn’t really felt before. Lily-Rose hugged him and greeted him by saying, “Monsieur Manson,” as she had called him as a child, and he had to admit that his charred, black heart skipped a beat at the affectionate gesture. At first, he wanted to say something ridiculous like, ‘you’ve grown up’ or ‘you look so much like your father’, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t an old, boring uncle and shouldn’t act like one.

“Long time no see,” he said instead and she nodded, opening the door for him. He went inside the entrance hall and was immediately attacked by the scent of Johnny’s cologne, which lingered in the air wherever he went, and he couldn’t help but to feel slightly nervous, remembering how he’d put his hands on him last time they’d met. He’d been so close, he’d caught a whiff of that same sweet, zesty scent. Then he’d put his hands on him, shaking him, and Johnny? He hadn’t lifted a finger, had just waited it out like the gentleman he could sometimes be, now more often than before, and Brian had felt like a mad dog, just wanting to inflict pain on someone so that he wouldn’t be at the receiving end anymore.

 _Why am I even here?_ He bit the inside of his cheek, nervous. _I should leave – I should just get the fuck o-_

“Your jacket?”

“Um, sure…”

He calmly slipped out of his heavy leather jacket and handed it to her. She grimaced at the weight of it, wondering how one could wear such clothes in LA, in the sweltering heat. Then again, he was the king of Goth and probably knew a thing or two about hell, and if you’ve been there, a little bit of heat won’t faze you.

“You’re here for Daddy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“He isn’t at home,” she informed him, her eyes lingering on his face.

“Where is he?”

“He’s working on a movie across the country. He’ll be away for another two weeks, I believe.”

“I didn’t know that,” he muttered, wondering why he hell Johnny hadn’t mentioned it, but in all fairness, their last meeting hadn’t been terribly amiable. Well, _he_ hadn’t been amiable. Johnny had probably attempted to give him space, but now he didn’t want space anymore, he just wanted to talk.

“I can come back later.”

She shook her head and fixed him with a stare that told him he wasn’t going anywhere.

“No.”

“I don’t-”

“Actually, I want to talk to you about something,” she told him and smiled too sweetly. Before he could protest, she gestured for him to follow her into the hallway. He came up with an excuse, but she cut him short by saying, “We have much to discuss, Monsieur Manson,” and something about her tone of voice made him suspicious. He didn’t respond but followed her to a grand living room that seemed a tad too sterile for Johnny’s liking. The teenager – fifteen or sixteen years old now – sat down in an oversized white armchair that seemed to swallow her lithe body like a huge clam. He followed her example and sat down on the couch, watching her. 

“So,” she said, and her eyes – those deep brown eyes – were fixed on him, “do you know what it is I want to talk about?”

He shook his head, confused.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Lily-Rose,” he said without looking at her, his eyes drawn to a painting of his that Johnny had, for whatever dubious reason, bought a couple of years ago. Not his best, if he were to be honest, but he’d told Johnny as much. Different eyes see different things and all that. He zoned out for a minute, thinking about the painting.

“What happened between you and my father?” she asked, and the question hit him like a bullet, startling him out of his thoughts. His eyes, now wide open, flew back to her face in what must’ve been a split second, he couldn’t help it, really, and she raised an eyebrow, aware that she’d hit the nail right on its head.

“… Maybe you should ask him.”

“No.” She smiled, and for a brief moment, she reminded him of Vanessa. “I asked Mama once, and she got very angry and wouldn’t answer me. All she said was that you are a terrible person, and the reason, she said, was that you have corrupted my father, but when I asked how-”

“Look, Lily-Rose,” he said, interrupting her. “A lot of shit happened back in the day, and, well, we didn’t handle everything gracefully – or maturely, but like I said, it happened a long time ago and it doesn’t matter anymore.”

She let out a snort of disbelief.

“It matters.”

“Why?” he asked, unsure of how much she knew. He was now a middle-aged man, yes, but he remembered his young years quite vividly, probably because he hadn’t reproduced and therefore hadn’t really grown up, and he remembered that the things his parents had worked hard to hide from him were also the things he had noticed the most.

“My parents are divorced.”

“That I know.”

“But no one bothered to explain me or Jack about it,” she complained, sounding hurt. “No, Mama brushed it off by saying it’s normal for married couples to ‘grow apart’, but they were _always_ apart – and they never realized how noticeable it was.” She frowned, reaching for her water bottle, taking a sip. She rolled the water around in her mouth for a bit, stalling. “And I overheard a conversation between Mama and Dad a few weeks before they told us about the divorce. It was a screaming match, I will tell you as much.” Then, once she had told him about the fight, she offered him another sugary, devious smile and said, “It was about you.”

“Me?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, still smiling like the little devil she probably was. “And _then_ , after Mama understood that she couldn’t change how he feels and divorced him, he moved here, to LA, where he doesn’t really know people anymore.” She paused and stared for a long time, her left eyebrow slowly arching. “No one but you, that is.”

He paled, wondering how a kid could be so observant.

“You’re overthinking,” he was quick to say. “Besides, it’s ancient history.”

“A decade is ancient history?”

He gave a small laugh and said, “Come on, kiddo. Have you even looked at your dad? Some say he’s the, uh, _nicest looking_ man in the world, and then you have me – on the other end of the scale.”

“Maybe you’re just underestimating yourself.”

“Look, sweetheart, I appreciate your concerns, but…”

The teenager shifted into lotus position, tucking both feet beneath her. He noticed that she was wearing a Jim Morrison tee-shirt and knee-length stockings that depicted cupcakes. “My dad can’t shut up about you,” she revealed, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes. “And he moved here – a place he loathes – rather than live close to me and Jack. It says something, doesn’t it?”

He let out a shuddering breath, unsure of what to say.

“I-I… I don’t know about that.” He cleared his throat, feeling guilty about her statement. No matter how misguided her intentions and beliefs were, it broke his heart that she would assume her father had chosen him over his children. “He probably doesn’t want to live on top of his ex-wife, closer to work and friends, and I know he misses you two-” 

“ _Monsieur Manson,_ ” she said, cutting him short. “Dad is crazy about you – I’m not asking about that, I already know it. No, that wasn’t what I asked you in the first place.”

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he was truly this dense or just insecure.

“Are you in love with him?”

 _What the fuck?_ His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and he thanked some kind of deity for the make-up he wore, because hell, he was blushing in a very age inappropriate way and couldn’t even meet her eyes. _This – this isn’t good. This is very bad,_ he told himself, and he seriously considered just running away, fleeing the scene, pretty sure he shouldn’t be having this conversation with someone who was essentially still a child, and her _Mama_ wouldn’t be thrilled to hear about it.

“Are you?” she repeated softly, and when their eyes met, he immediately thought of Johnny.

“No, I’m not.”

Upon hearing his response, her eyes gleamed with mischief, and he knew that she wasn’t a stupid girl – she had him figured out. Just like her father, all it took was one long, scrutinizing look and she’d find all the pieces of the puzzle. Before he could come up with an excuse to leave, to not confess to the confused longings of his ugly heart, the blonde declared that, “He’s in love with you,” and smiled knowingly. “And he came here for you.” 

Brian opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, stunned.

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

She wouldn’t wipe that self-satisfied smirk from her lips and just shrugged, saying, “I won’t tell anyone, Monsieur Manson,” and he opened his mouth, about to protest, but before the words could make their escape, he gave up. Instead of making up excuses, he nodded his head slowly, at a loss for words.

* * *

Landon parked outside the mansion. The middle-aged man made a dash for the car, his heart beating hard and fast after the involuntary heart-to-heart talk. As he sat down in the backseat, he waved Lily-Rose goodbye. The petite girl waved back and closed the door. The conversation was over. Brian let out a deep breath, relieved that those brown eyes weren’t there to penetrate his skull – and soul – anymore.

“Landon?”

“Where to, Mr. Manson?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a groan. The driver arched and eyebrow at him in the mirror and said, “Mr. Manson?”

“… Take me to a fitness center,” he finally said, sounding utterly defeated. The driver looked stunned and hesitated for a moment, unsure if he’d heard him correctly, and the singer, who wasn’t renowned for his amenability, grew impatient and snapped, “Are you deaf or what?” 

“No, sorry, Mr. Manson. Which one-”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

The driver obliged without saying another word, surprised that his boss wanted to do something that could be considered even remotely healthy. Brian wondered what the actual fuck he was doing, aware that he would live to regret it in the morning, but he was determined. He didn’t want to be fat anymore – and if eating healthy and exercising was necessary to achieve slimness, he would eat porridge and jog like a madman. However, the moment he stepped inside the gym, still clad in his purple shirt, fancy pants and platform boots, his oomph quickly fizzled. All the people present resembled Greek gods, tanned and muscular, and while he was used to being in the spotlight, the looks he received were mocking and condescending in a way that made his skin crawl. The feeling of being the one geeky kid at school suddenly returned in full force. Didn’t matter that he was filthy rich because cultural and economic capital were both worthless here. You had to be a plastic doll to be seen.

“… Can I help you, sir?” an employee asked, sounding nauseatingly friendly.

“Yeah, I, uh, want to get rid of this,” he said and gestured with his hand in front of his abdomen. The woman gave a small laugh and said, “Oh, that’s an easy fix, sir,” and he almost believed her. Almost.

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, I’m quite confident,” she assured him. “Would you come with me, please?”

He followed the woman into an office, and as they walked, he couldn’t help but to appreciate the view. She was too statuesque for his liking, almost as tall as he was, but her body was fully in proportion with curves in all the right places, which was further emphasized by the tight-fitting clothes she wore. Never in a million years would he fall head over heels in love with such a woman, but he could appreciate her. What he appreciated even more as they sat down and talked about the lifestyle changes he’d have to make, was her no-nonsense attitude. He could forget about cheese, white bread and absinthe. Now he’d have to eat porridge and carrots, and the concept of a ‘calorie budget’ was introduced to him. After the brief consultation, he already felt like giving up, but she assured him that it was mostly about breaking bad habits. Once he’d gotten over his cravings, the rest would be easy, she’d said, and that, yes, he would learn to like it.

 _Learn to like it_ , he repeated inside his head, frowning. _Sounds like something a pedophile would tell his little girlfriend._

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Mr. Warner,” she said and shook his hand. “Make sure to buy proper shoes by then – and break them in first. Blisters can be painful.”

“I’m not sure I share your enthusiasm, but yeah, I’ll see you next Monday.”

“It’ll get easier,” she told him in a sing-song voice that was about as off-putting and fake as the plastic dolls he’d seen in the lobby. “You’ll grow fond of it, sir. Most people do.”

_I don’t qualify as ‘most people’, but alright._

He offered her a stiff smile. “We’ll see.”

“And do remember to clean out your fridge, sir,” she chirped, showing off her pearly whites that screamed of bleach. “Out of sight, out of mind, alright?”

“Alright.”

 _Fuck._ He drew in a sharp breath. _I’ll probably die – on a treadmill. The headlines will be amusing. I’m sure Johnny will laugh. ‘Marilyn Manson dies on treadmill as he tries to conform to society’s expectations’, or simply ‘shocked shock-rocker succumbs to shock after workout’._

A couple of hours later, after having made several pricey purchases, including sneakers and, according to the saleswoman, ‘stylish’ activewear, he collapsed on the couch and decided to take a nap. He heard a meow and let out an appreciate sound as Lily White settled on top of his chest, glad to see him and worried about the strange, white shoes he’d bought that somehow smelled like rubber. Just then, his phone beeped, and when he saw that it was Johnny, his cheeks went hot with that scarlet burn and he coughed, nearly choking on air. He then threw the iPhone down on the carpeted floor, unable to think of a response that wouldn’t be painfully inarticulate, especially after the hour-long tête-à-tête with Lily-Rose earlier that day, the one that had pried his eyes open. The text hadn’t been anything special, just him checking up on his ‘old pal’, but to Brian, it hardly mattered _what_ he said. It was Johnny.

 _I’m fucked_ , he thought to himself as he gave in to the sandman and drifted off to his own la-la land.

* * *

Johnny saw the jacket the moment he stepped inside the entrance hall and winced. It was huge and heavy and reeked of cologne, and he wrinkled his forehead, worried about who would wear such a jacket to his house. In his mind, he saw a biker with facial tattoos and bulging arms, a guy so huge he’d snap his little daughter in half if she spoke too freely. He wasn’t a judgmental fellow, of course not, but when it came to his child, he was very superstitious and thought trolls were roaming about in their garden ready to attack her. Whoever had left this jacket in his house, had been invited inside by her. She knew she couldn’t bring strangers, especially those of the male sex, back to the house without his approval.

“Lily-Rose,” he said, finding the girl curled up on the couch, her eyes glued to the TV. “Whose jacket is this?”

Her eyes widened.

“No one,” she said dismissively, trying to appear nonchalant. “Isn’t it yours?”

“It’s at least two sixed too large for me,” he commented, raising one eyebrow.

“Hm.” She wrinkled her forehead, feigning ignorance. When Johnny didn’t respond, she turned her attention back to the TV. A movie was playing. Johnny recognized his ex-girlfriend, Winona Ryder, and shuddered as he remembered his tattoo, ‘Wino forever’, which served as a constant reminder of his youthful recklessness. Again, he shuddered at the thought of a possible boyfriend, one who wore size XXL and possessed a strong, muscular physique. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know, Daddy.”

A moment of silence followed. The girl raked her fingers through her bleached hair and watched the screen without paying attention, her cheeks slightly flushed. Johnny, being a seasoned actor, noticed and went rigid at once, aware that his little girl was hiding something.

 _Just wait ‘til I get my hands on the little punk,_ he thought to himself, his eyes darkening with anger. But as he was about to say something less than pleasant to her, something along the lines of ‘you’re grounded’, he closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, checking his anger. That was easier said than done. He’d always been hot-headed.

 _I better not lose my cool with her_ , he told himself sternly. _She’ll hate me for it._

His eyes blinked open again, taking in the sight of her, so young and mature all at once.

“It just appeared out of the blue then?”

“Daddy,” she sighed, annoyed by the interrogation. “Stop.”

“Do you have a boyfriend, Lily-Rose?”

She gave him a long look and said, “No, Daddy,” in a final tone of voice, one that reminded him of Vanessa.

“Don’t lie to me, baby doll. You know you aren’t allowed to have boys over when I’m not at home,” he reminded her, and her eyes, now round as marbles, shot up from the screen. The look on her face was that of genuine bewilderment – and annoyance, but Johnny, too obsessed with the thought of a lover, a lover who wore big leather jackets and reeked of cologne and testosterone, failed to notice. All he could think of was how to find this boy – or man – and threaten him to stay away.

“Oh, you know what?” she asked, getting up from the couch.

“What?”

“I’m _done_ with this! I have _not_ had a boy over, and I’ve never lied to you.” She glared at him, clearly feeling hurt. “Now leave me alone.”

“Lily-Rose-”

“No, just stop! You know nothing about my life!” she yelled and all but ran down the hallway. Johnny let out a frustrated sound and said, “You’re being a child,” but he didn’t follow her. Nothing good ever came from running after women, he decided. When he heard the sound of a door being slammed shut, he heaved a sigh and sat down on the couch, his fingers still curled around the black leather. He frowned as he realized that it wasn’t faux leather – which was what all the kids wore nowadays – and he suddenly felt like growling.

 _This is expensive_ , he thought. _Not something a biker would wear – or any other poor student or teenage heartthrob. No, he must be older…_

In the end, he gave up on the bloody jacket. He couldn’t coax the truth out of her any more than he could read her mind, and while he understood that she was hiding something, he couldn’t reach a conclusion without the evidence to back him up. For a second there, he contemplated reaching out to his ex-wife – women often talked among themselves about their love interests, after all – but, as he envisioned how that conversation would go down, he realized it couldn’t possibly end well. Vanessa wouldn’t tell him shit, that stubborn cunt. She would, however, inform Lily-Rose that her father had been sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. That couldn’t happen. She’d hate him.

He reached into his pocket to grab his iPhone. As usual, he had some missed calls and a couple of e-mails from his agent – something about ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ – and nothing else. All was work related. He furrowed his brow and felt like tossing his phone aside, annoyed. None of his friends had reached out to him, though he hadn’t really declared that he’d moved back to LA. He was going to meet up with Alice Cooper later that week, but it had more to do with band practice than socializing.

Lonely, was he?

_Could be._

He bit the inside of his cheek and stared longingly out the window. A thought flickered through his mind, bringing back pictures of unruly, black hair and deep brown eyes.

_Marilyn._

“No,” he told himself sternly, aware that the rocker needed some time. He’d said as much. 

_But he shouldn’t be alone now, should he? Besides, it’s been a while._

“Johnny, you fool,” he muttered below his breath, his fingers still pressed against the touch screen. An unflattering photo of Marilyn he had taken a couple of years ago smiled up at him, reminding him of happier times that were long gone, and the worst part of it? Marilyn wouldn’t ever trust him again, not the way he had back then, or so he thought. To a man of Marilyn’s caliber, a man whose hard exterior was nothing but a carefully constructed façade to fend off posers and beggars, the breach of trust was unforgivable. 

Johnny, in spite of his love for the man, had completely abandoned him.

“… I wish I could sleep,” he sang to himself, his voice too rough. “But I can’t lay on my back… because there’s a knife for everyday that I’ve known…” He paused, wondering where he’d placed the pack of cigarettes, acutely aware that he needed nicotine to survive the day. “… You,” he finished lamely. His heart, or whatever remained of it, ached. He was reminded of what he’d written in that letter a decade earlier, something about how his guilt was an ocean for him to drown in, and it had been. But they were older now and should move on, should move past what had happened, but that was easier said than done, wasn’t it?

 _I’ll go see him,_ he thought, summoning the strength to go through with it. He’d been texting the singer regularly, and he hadn’t texted back, not once. Johnny chewed on his lower lip, asking himself whether it meant that he wanted to be left alone or not, and then, before he could reach an answer, he plonked himself on the luxurious white couch, letting out a heavy sigh. His hair was too long and fell into his eyes. He tried to shove it back but to no avail.

Again, he looked at the screen and the photo. Marilyn had been drunk and his make-up was smudged, his mouth open and his eyes almost closed. He’d been laughing about some stupid joke, or had it been yet another inane statement made by Pogo, their very own Mad Hatter? More often than not, Marilyn had been irate around his bandmates, but during their time together, his anger, lodged so deeply within his heart, had gone away. Johnny smiled. They’d been good for one another. In another world, they could’ve shared that love and been genuinely happy. Yes, happy in the way normal people were happy. Happy for no other reason than love. But, as they’d learned back then, love was a treacherous thing.

“… Dad?”

His muscles froze. Lily-Rose stood next to him, one eyebrow arched at the peculiar photo of her uncle Manson – and the fact that her father had been staring at it with a wistful smile on his face, looking like a total dork.

“Uh, I was just, I-”

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He did, however, see the corner of her mouth lifting into a brief, amused smile that said something along the lines of ‘I know what you’re doing’. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks, and trying his best to conceal his embarrassment, he coughed rather awkwardly into his hand. 

Lily-Rose looked utterly unimpressed by the act. She knew a thing or two about her father, after all.

“I’m going out,” she declared, folding her arms across her chest. Only then did he notice that she had changed into a miniskirt and a crop top that, had any other girl worn it, he would’ve seen too much. He didn’t approve. 

“What?” he mumbled. “You’re not seeing some boy-”

“I’m going to see Victoria, like I told you earlier this morning.

Johnny frowned.

“Hmm, yes, Victoria,” he said, sounding like it was the least convincing thing he’d ever heard, and Lily-Rose, being vigilant, noticed, her eyes darkening. In Johnny’s mind, it had nothing to do with Victoria, of course. She was a rather sweet girl his daughter had befriended some time ago, a girl whose mother was an old acquaintance of Vanessa. No, it had nothing to do with the girl, but it had everything to do with that jacket.

 _Leather_ , he thought begrudgingly while staring into her brown eyes _. New, expensive and tailored to fit a gorilla – not a sixteen-year-old kid._

“If you don’t believe me,” she all but growled, “give her mother a call.”

Johnny was about to blurt out that it wouldn’t be the first time two teens had plotted and schemed to avoid being grounded and that they could’ve easily made up a believable story about going to see a movie or so, but when he saw the sad look on her face, as if he’d betrayed her, he decided it wouldn’t be the cleverest thing to do. 

“No,” he said, exhaling deeply. “No, I won’t.”

Lily-Rose perked up instantly, and Johnny, who couldn’t stand to see her sad, hoped it’d last.

“I haven’t lied to you, Daddy,” she reassured him, her voice low and even. “But I can tell you don’t believe a word I’m saying. I honestly don’t know where that jacket came from.” She let out a sigh, plucking lint from the sleeve of her sweater, and then she conveniently lowered her eyes, not facing him, and Johnny, who’d lived a tad longer than her, immediately noticed. Only liars and shy people avoid eye contact, that much he knew, and she wasn’t shy.

“Just please,” she continued to say, eyes glued to the wall, “give Mrs. Rosewood a call? I don’t want you to worry yourself sick over me.”

“Ah, no, you’ve got me all wrong,” he said quietly, emphasizing with her in spite of the lie he’d just been served. But creating a conflict would ruin the tranquility of having her at home, something he’d yearned for ever since the divorce, and he wouldn’t risk that. “I won’t call her because I believe you, sweetheart.”

She nodded, slightly surprised that he wasn’t trying to argue.

“Just be home for dinner.” He glanced down at his wristwatch. “Around eight. Is that quite alright?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Lily-Rose smiled, seeming relieved. As she walked out of the room and toward the entrance hall, Johnny stared at her lithe form and tried to convince himself that she wasn’t really lying. She hadn’t ever been a liar. Wasn’t any good at lying, much like Johnny himself. Still, the jacket hadn’t appeared out of nowhere and most certainly belonged to someone, but with that said, he couldn’t be absolutely certain it hadn’t been left there by mistake by someone who wasn’t Lily-Rose’s boyfriend. He’d be gentle, he decided, because even if she had a boyfriend – even if she’d lied – it wasn’t worth the fight. Teenagers were, if anything, obstinate, and let’s be real, he’d been a thousand times worse at her age, having popped his cherry at twelve. Wasn’t one to speak, was he?

 _And maybe that’s why I’m so worried,_ he thought to himself, biting down on his lower lip. _I know what those boys are thinking._

He gave a low, dissatisfied grunt and all but ran to the kitchen, finding a bottle of rum he’d stashed under the kitchen sink. As he unscrewed it and took a long swig, he closed his eyes and wished he could’ve been strong enough to abstain. But then again, what even was the bloody point of sobriety? He rolled his eyes and thought, _Getting high on Jesus, probably_ , which wasn’t for him. A long time ago, perhaps even during his days in Kentucky, his elders had been determined to subject him to the teachings of the Bible. Even as a young child, he had viewed those dogmas and attitudes as archaic beliefs. It had unfortunately resulted in behavior that, regardless of religious beliefs, could only be deemed as immoral. Heavy drinking, drugs and an abundance of meaningless sex had ensued. Parenthood had saved him. Now they were adults, and it didn’t matter that he had all these huge movie projects going on, he felt so restless. So alone. Hollow, even.

 _Like I’ve got nothing. Nothing to aim for – live for. Hell, I can’t even get high on drugs anymore,_ he lamented. Being a father, drugs wasn’t an option. Had to be a somewhat good person, and that excluded most hedonistic pursuits.

Another swig. He cherished the burn of the alcohol, though the guilt served as a bitter aftertaste, one that would linger. Still, it helped him think more clearly.

 _No getting high, Johnny boy,_ he thought, muttering, “Alright,” to himself. Then a thought popped up in his mind: _What about getting high on the Antichrist instead?_

He arched an eyebrow and coughed.

“Oh, lord, Johnny boy,” he muttered, placing the bottle on the dining table. His dark brown eyes glazed over as he stared at the black label that depicted an exotic mansion and the word ‘ _Clément_ ’ in italic, golden letters, a name that sounded about as ridiculously exclusive as the price he must’ve paid, though he wasn’t particularly educated on matters regarding his own financial situation. However, thinking about the Antichrist, he wished he would’ve found a bottle of absinthe instead.

“You’re doomed, aren’t you, Johnny boy?” He smiled mournfully. “But no more than before the divorce, surely.”

He lifted the bottle, made an internal toast to himself and wrapped his lips around the opening, drinking with his eyes closed, shutting out the white walls, the large windows and the furniture that felt nothing like him. But then again, he felt so strongly displaced in his new life, the new, impersonal house hardly mattered at all. LA, with all its dehumanizing glamour, wasn’t for him, it never had been, and if things didn’t turn out as planned, the whole bloody move would’ve been for nothing. In that case, he’d left the privacy and freedom of France for this, for streets laced with gold and drugs and fame, and he didn’t want any of it. No, he only wanted one thing – one thing he didn’t much deserve. But he was done being a coward now. Didn’t want to run no more. Just wanted to find that inner strength, and perhaps, if the Gods were feeling merciful, that inner peace.

 _So_ , he thought, his eyes blinking open, _perhaps it is time to have another chat with Marilyn._


	5. Metamorphosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tell myself "I'm gonna post once a week" and then life happens. Well, sorry, and I hope you like this new chapter ^_^ 
> 
> Thank you for the comments! They mean so much to me.

November 25, 2016

Los Angeles, California

He couldn’t quite believe his own eyes. There, in the middle of the dark, stuffy living room, stood Marilyn Manson with a hula hoop around his waist. The speakers blasted out aggrotech music that made him feel as though he were at a German nightclub, but strangely enough, the singer had exchanged leather and platform boots for workout attire and white sneakers. A thin, fit girl with oversized breasts about as natural as her porn blonde hair stood next to the singer, shouting out one command after the other, and the singer, in spite of his labored breathing, obeyed without protest. Johnny was still in the hallway, but he quickly slid behind the doorway and halfway out of sight, equal parts afraid and intrigued.

_… What in God’s name is going on here?_ he wondered, somehow convinced he’d walked straight into an episode of ‘Punk’d’, only Brian wasn’t really _that_ famous anymore and this was all happening in the privacy of his mansion. Besides, no one could’ve forced or convinced his Marilyn to do something he didn’t want to do. Well, no one but Marilyn himself. That was the clue, wasn’t it?

“Faster!” the woman barked, moving as effortlessly with the hula hoop as a skilled circus performer. Johnny almost laughed at the command, ‘faster’, aware that the singer had heard that before under, well, under quite _different_ circumstances.

Again, the singer obeyed. His large, powerful body moved with surprising ease, though not with the same practiced finesse displayed by the instructor. Johnny was, however, transfixed by the sight. His Marilyn was strong, and this version, though older and heftier than he’d been ten years ago, was rather eye-catching. Without the make-up and costumes, he couldn’t hide behind the alter ego no more. Johnny thought he saw a kind of maturity in him that hadn’t been there before, though all this exercise had to be a midlife crisis of some sort. Still, seeing him like this was intriguing. Different.

_It’s vulnerable,_ Johnny thought to himself, _and utterly insane._

Brian was breathing hard and started to slow down a bit. Beads of sweat were trickling down his pale, make-up-free face, and even from a distance, Johnny could tell he was soaked.

_Should’ve taken off that T-shirt, Marilyn. It’s hot in here._

“Faster, you fat fuck!” the woman yelled.

Johnny’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing – or possibly shouting. Had that woman truly dared to call the Antichrist a ‘fat fuck’? She was a feisty thing, that one.

“If – if I go any faster,” the singer wheezed out in between breaths, “I’ll have a heart attack!”

“Hah! That belly fat is what’ll kill you, Mr. Warner!” she shouted back without losing control of the hula hoop, clearly not afraid of the singer and his at times gruesome temper. “You’ll wind up in a coffin – an XXL sized coffin, that is!”

The singer came to an abrupt halt, absolutely taken aback by the statement.

“You shut your-”

“What? Don’t stop!” the girl yelled, still moving effortlessly to the beat of the aggrotech. It was as if she was completely familiar with the cyber goth scene and had been attending clubs regularly her entire adult life. Her appearance did, however, tell a very different tale. Like most LA women, she was too blonde, too tan and unnaturally busty. Johnny wanted to know why on earth the singer was subjecting himself to this kind of torture, but then again, the pressure to appear young and fresh had probably gotten to him, just like every other washed up rockstar in LA.

“Come on, Mr. Warner!” the fitness instructor said encouragingly. Brian opened his mouth to protest, and while Johnny was expecting some kind of a shitstorm, all that came from the singer’s mouth was a brief, breathless laugh. He was clearly exhausted – and a little bit upset.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

She grinned, aware that he’d caved in.

“You wish!”

Johnny wrinkled his forehead and tried very hard not to laugh at the absurdity of the scene before him. He’d only enjoyed a few swigs of rum that afternoon, nothing major, but someone must’ve spiked it with something illegal.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, about to turn around and leave. It was only then that the singer looked over his shoulder, and the exact moment their eyes met, the music ended and all that could be heard was the sound of Brian panting like a mad dog. Blondie, still oblivious to the fact that Johnny Depp was watching, let out an obnoxiously cheery, “Good job, Mr. Warner!” and raised her hand for a high five, but her client left her hanging, his eyes fully focused on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“… I was, uh, I…” the raven-haired man stammered.

“What are – oh, oh!” The fitness instructor let out a surprised yelp. “Aren’t you-”

“Johnny Depp,” Brian finished for her, rolling his eyes.

“I’m Vanessa,” the girl said, and now that he was looking at her face, tanned and with hollow cheeks from what had to be years of dieting, he had a hard time figuring out her age. “I’m Mr. Warner’s fitness instructor. Didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

The actor offered her a polite smile and gave her hand a firm shake.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Vanessa,” he said, and the way he said it, with all that feigned sincerity that people couldn’t for the life of them figure out, made her melt. She gave a strange noise – Brian thought it sounded like a bear in heat – and threw herself at Johnny, hugging him. He gave an ‘oof!’ and, as he accidentally touched her sweaty back, winced and pulled back. 

Brian grunted, as unimpressed with people as he’d ever been.

“Vanessa,” he said, sounding paternally strict in a way that didn’t become him. “Give Mr. Depp some space, will you? We don’t want to get sweat and spray tan all over his fancy Armani suit, or what?”

“Will you sign-”

“ _Vanessa_ ,” Brian snapped at her, fed up with the fangirling.

“Oh, but Mr. Warner…” 

“I’ll sign anything you want, sugar,” the actor declared, chuckling a little. When he saw the resigned expression on Brian’s face, he felt even more smug about the situation and requested a pen. Brian handed him one, though he looked particularly angry about it, his eyes narrowed into crinkled slits. Johnny winked at him before hastily scribbling his name on a notepad with a personalized greeting: ‘to the beautiful Vanessa, love Johnny Depp’, and touched her fingers in a deliberately slow manner that had her blushing and giggling like a virgin on prom night. Brian, who had never been able to get a woman soaking wet just by looking at her, stifled another grunt and wiped sweat from his face, wishing she’d just leave the house already. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Depp.”

“You’re welcome, sugar.”

“Alright,” the singer muttered gruffly. “Time to go, Vanessa.”

“Yes, certainly, Mr. Warner.” An almost professional smile grazed her lips, but when her eyes landed on Johnny again, all professionalism died. She exclaimed, “Bye, Mr. Depp!” and grinned enthusiastically, practically convinced they were already engaged. “Thanks for the autograph.” 

Once they heard the slam of the front door, Brian gave him a long look and said, “Was that really necessary?”

“Was what necessary?” Johnny asked innocently. “I should always please little women if I can.”

“After one failed marriage, I’d think you see things more clearly.”

“Oh, please.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll never remarry.”

“What, no Vanessa II?”

He wrinkled his forehead and said, “Gods, no,” in a voice that sounded more amused than repulsed. It was a joke, of course, because truth been told, he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t get down on one knee in the future, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be for Vanessa II, or Linda or Britney. No, he was done with women. Done with PMS, guilt-tripping and temper tantrums thrown over dirty dishes or forgotten anniversaries.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Brian muttered and sullenly plopped himself in a chair by the coffee table. For a second, he looked as if he was about to add something to his statement, but he just shook his head and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, grunting. Johnny saw something dark lingering in his eyes, some of that old resentment, and before Johnny could say something, he whispered, “I shouldn’t have gotten violent.”

“What?”

“Last time.” Brian shook his head again and shifted, the wooden chair creaking slightly as he shifted his weight on his seat. As he did this, he avoided the actor’s eyes and stared down at his white sneakers like a guilty little lad, aware that he’d done something bad.

“Ah, no, don’t worry.”

“I’m not _worried_.” Anger crept into his voice. “I’m just fucking upset that I could do that – and I could’ve really messed you up, just like when…” As his eyes flickered down to the Persian rug, he went quiet. Johnny stared down at the intricate pattern as well, remembering the exact moment Brian’s fist had connected with his jaw. That rug was stained with his blood. It had been his fault. He’d pulled that stunt back in Hildesheim – or whatever one should call it – and he’d really put a dent in their friendship.

_Silly me,_ Johnny thought darkly, his face suddenly pale under the lamplight. _I thought payback was our only salvation. Couldn’t have been further from the truth._

“It’s in the past,” the brunet assured him. “Let’s not dwell on the past, Marilyn.”

“I know.” The younger man tried to smile. It came across as a particularly ugly grimace, one that had Johnny grinning.

“How you’ve starred in all these TV series astounds me,” he commented with a laugh. “You’re not very good at hiding your feelings, after all.”

_Except from masking it with anger._

“Alright.” The singer raised himself to his feet. “I’ll go take a shower. I probably smell like the pig I probably am.” Again, he dried away sweat with the back of his hand, and in the process of doing so, he somehow managed to completely mess up his hair, currently shaved at both sides. Johnny knew he’d seen some photos online where the singer sported a Kim Jong-un inspired hairstyle, probably just for the sake of being crude. 

“Really, Marilyn.” Johnny smiled. “A pig?”

“I probably look the part too,” the younger man added, scrunching up his nose.

“You look like you’ve been working out,” the actor said, arching one eyebrow.

The singer let out a short, clipped laugh and said, “I’ve let myself go,” to which Johnny frowned. That was an unusually straight-forward statement, at least coming from Marilyn. “It’s the price to pay, isn’t it?” he added fretfully, as bad-tempered as ever, and, as he glanced down at his disheveled self, crimson roses bloomed on his already pink cheeks. There was a definite hint of self-loathing to those words, and Johnny, who had a teenage daughter who weighed about ninety pounds and still called herself fat, knew all too well what that meant.

“What’s that?” Johnny murmured, sounding way too sympathetic. Marilyn couldn’t stand that, couldn’t stand being pitied. His eyes went black. Anger welled up inside him.

“Don’t you dare-”

“Oh, for the love of all that’s unholy, Marilyn!” the actor exclaimed, sick and tired of hearing about how he didn’t want to be ‘babied’ or pitied. “You’re far too sensitive, do you know that?” Johnny asked in a low yet teasing voice, his eyes gleaming with mirth and something else, something that had the singer close his fat mouth, his heart beating faster. “You mustn’t always think I’m pitying you.”

“You are.”

“I don’t agree with you on that, Marilyn.”

The singer was about to retort with a rude comment, but he stopped when Johnny, in two short strides, closed the distance between them, their chests almost touching. Johnny then stood on his tiptoes, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his friend’s sweaty, red face. The larger man’s eyes widened in surprise, and a strange noise, something between a gasp and a yelp, escaped him. He took a couple of steps backwards, almost colliding with the wall. Johnny just smiled, murmuring, “I’ve seen worse – much, _much_ worse,” which caused the younger man to hold his breath, unsure of what the heck was going on. Johnny saw that he wanted to react with anger, but something – guilt, maybe? – held him back. The brunet let his hand fall to his arm. Skin against skin. Brian sucked in a lungful of air. 

“… I, uh, I’ll take that shower now,” he said, arching an eyebrow at the actor.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Johnny said, implying that there would be food.

The singer nodded and said, “Suit yourself, Depp,” with a small, strained smile on his lips, and the actor knew that smile was nothing but a failed attempt at trying to cover up his confusion. He wanted to add something to the conversation, to say something about the itch in his heart, but his mouth felt dry at the thought and he only smiled sadly at the singer, wishing he knew all the right words. Before he could think of something clever, Brian turned around and disappeared through the doorway, his white sneakers squeaking as he walked up the stairs.

* * *

The kitchen was undersized in comparison to the rest of the house and felt like it’d only just been renovated, though it hadn’t. Johnny thought it spoke volumes about the rockstar, who, throughout the years of their friendship, had been all about junk food. When he opened the fridge and found fresh vegetables, fish and countless low-fat products, he thought the world had indeed gone mad. Well, at least Marilyn had gone off the rails. Not that there was anything particularly wrong about taking diet and exercise seriously, especially when reaching a ‘dangerous age’, a term which usually refers to pot-bellied men in their fifties and sixties, but Jesus Christ, he’d been hula-hooping with a sex doll! If that wasn’t madness at its finest, what was?

_Maybe he’s had a scare?_ The actor frowned, wondering whether this was something he should inquire about or not. But knowing Marilyn, that would probably just lead to another hissy fit.

_But bloody hell,_ he thought, his brows snapping together. _He hasn’t responded in weeks. Maybe something’s happened? Why wouldn’t he tell me?_

He pushed the thought aside and started preparing a meal. Only then did he remember that he had made dinner plans with his daughter. Canceling those plans made him feel like a proper asshole – they didn’t get to spend that much time together these days – but she was a teenager now and was probably happy she’d get to spend a couple of hours more at her friend’s place. Johnny texted her, ‘I’ll have dinner with Marilyn. Is that OK?’, to which she hastily replied, ‘Yes!’ and a heart emoji. Then, ‘I’ll be home around midnight’. Johnny decided that he was fine with the new curfew. Really, he was fine with it.

Well, almost.

_… That damn jacket,_ he thought sullenly and started chopping up some vegetables. 

* * *

Gazing into the mirror, Brian knew the exercise regime hadn’t been as effective as the lady at the gym had promised it’d be. Hell, it seemed like he’d gulped down low-fat yoghurts and bowls of porridge for nothing. Sure, his arms were swollen from the weights he’d been lifting, but his paunch was still intact and as big of an eyesore as ever, and he’d been doing downright demeaning acts such jogging, spinning and swimming in public to get rid of the bloody thing. But it hadn’t helped, and he’d even gained weight. ‘Muscle weigh more than fat’, the cunt had told him, and honestly, he didn’t want it. He just wanted to be thin! Desirable. Not a repulsive sack of potatoes, which was exactly how he felt about himself. Especially next to Johnny fucking Depp.

_Maybe I should just quit eating altogether?_ he thought stubbornly. _I’ve already had to give up on the foods I love, so why the fuck shouldn’t I starve myself?_

He found one of his new black shirts, the one that that stretched over his round belly without drawing to much attention to it, and prayed Johnny wouldn’t see just how ugly he was, which was of course futile.

_I look just like my Dad_ , he thought bitterly, wondering how long it’d take before he lost enough weight for certain clothes to start fitting like they used to, for instance his custom-made leather pants and slim fit shirts. His fitness instructor had told him to get rid of the now ill-fitting clothes and buy new ones as he slimmed down, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to be his old self again. But as the days went by, it dawned on him that maybe that wasn’t even possible anymore, and honestly, that thought made him feel so defeated, he just wanted to go on a binge, drinking and eating like it was his last day.

Before he walked down the stairs, he put on a slightly oversized leather jacket and slicked his hair back. Then, as he started feeling terribly overdressed, he groaned dejectedly and raked his fingers through his dark locks, trying to style it back into the rat’s nest he usually sported.

_Better,_ he thought and sprayed himself with some pleasant-smelling cologne. He instinctively reached for the red lipstick he’d normally wear, but as he brought it to his face, he thought, _Maybe not,_ opting for a more natural look. And indeed, his face was more natural now. He had eyebrows again and was tanner than he’d been in ages. Not that he’d exactly wanted to get a tan, but his fitness instructor had told him how ‘getting some sun won’t exactly kill you, Mr. Warner’, and he’d felt like his dad all over again. She’d dragged him outside and forced him to join her for a walk on the beach, which hadn’t been anywhere near as romantic as they made it out to be in the movies, especially not without a colorful cocktail. He’d joked about it and said, ‘I’d sure like a drink just about now’, and she’d handed him a ‘ginger shot’, which was just about the foulest broth he’d ever ingested.

“Hey, Marilyn?” Johnny called out softly from the hallway. Brian flinched and remembered that he had a visitor, and then his heart started galloping inside his chest because that visitor was also Johnny Depp, and he wasn’t really prepared to talk to Johnny fucking Depp at the moment, feeling too, well, what? Inferior? Fat? He didn’t even know.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a second,” he called back, and then he heard the older man walking back down the stairs.

_Keep your anger in check_ , he reminded himself. _Don’t blow up._

_And definitely don’t hit anyone._

He huffed and walked down the stairs. The first thing that occurred to him was that the kitchen smelled heavenly, the pleasant scents all but assailing his nostrils. This pissed him off. Surely he couldn’t eat all the mouth-watering food on his plate? But as he sat down, he saw that it was in fact salad and chicken, nothing he couldn’t eat, and he was suddenly very grateful for the surprise visit. He hadn’t felt full in ages – well, weeks – and his stomach growled, demanding to be fed this instant.

“… How the fuck did you have time to make all this?”

“Ah, well.” Johnny flashed him a dashing smile, a smile he should’ve been too well-aquatinted with to even notice, but alas, no such luck. That infantile fluttery feeling came back into his stomach with full force. “You were in the shower for forty-five minutes, Marilyn,” he informed him bluntly with a knowing look in his eyes.

The singer frowned.

“No, I wasn’t.” Then, as he glanced down at his wristwatch, he groaned and muttered, “Fucking hell – I was.”

The actor grinned as he sat down across from the singer.

“Enjoy your meal.”

“Mm, I will.”

They ate in silence. Brian enjoyed every bite of the chicken salad and thought that Johnny, who had been trying to feed his children healthy foods, knew a thing or two about cooking. The salad was over-brimming with summery flavors of lime, avocado and pomegranate that complimented the chicken, which had been seasoned with soy sauce, chili, black pepper and garlic. It was perfect. All that was missing, he thought, was a glass of wine, but as it were, he couldn’t drink wine, nor could he drink anything else.

“I’ve got a rather suburban problem,” Johnny said, breaking the silence.

“Oh?”

“I think Lily-Rose has a boyfriend.”

The younger man shrugged. “She’s a teenager, Johnny.”

“Ah, well,” he muttered, stabbing the chicken with his fork. “I think he’s older.”

“Like what, in his twenties?”

Johnny shook his head.

“I found a jacket in the entrance hall,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “It’s at least two sizes too large for me.”

_Shit_ , Brian thought, and he immediately went pale. _That’s where that jacket went._

“Well, it’s just a jacket,” he reasoned. “It’s hardly tangible evidence. I mean, people come and go, right?”

The actor nodded. “Guess I’m just being paranoid,” he said with a sigh, though he didn’t look convinced. “I see what a beautiful girl she’s become and I don’t want her to make silly mistakes. I know I lied all the time to get it my way, and I always ended up making a mess of things, you know?”

“All teenagers make silly, fucked up mistakes.” Brian smiled. Even if the jacket in question hadn’t belonged to him, it was more than likely that she’d get a boyfriend sometime soon. “That’s what being a teenager is all about, Depp. I know you want her to be all innocent and sweet until she gets married to the perfect guy, but it doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” he muttered, sounding like he’s just swallowed a fly.

“Besides, it’s just a jacket. Don’t sweat it.”

He gave a sigh, aware that his friend was right and he was in fact being paranoid as fuck.

“Also, no mentally stable kid would dare to mistreat your daughter,” the singer reminded him. “You’re Johnny Depp. You could pay to have their nutsack kicked in.”

They both laughed at the mental images, horrible as they were, and the mood lightened a bit.

“Don’t you have an album coming up, Marilyn?”

“Hah.” Brian pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Johnny gave a humored laugh and handed him a napkin, which made the younger man roll his eyes, once again feeling babied. Still, he didn’t voice that thought and dabbed at the corners of his mouth like a compliant little girl.

“Mom’s not even cold in her grave,” he said, and while he was trying to appear nonchalant, he inwardly flinched at how he’d said it, so coolly. “And Twigs is out of the band, and Po, no, goddamn it, _Stephen_ ’s out of the band. I’m just trying to pick up the fucking pieces of my fucking life, you know? But to be honest, it’s a mess from one end to the other, and I’ve got a hard time staying focused. I’m supposed to make a music video – I’ve got most things figured out already – but I’m just feeling… unenthusiastic.” He shrugged, thinking about the attractive actresses he’d hired and the props he’d chosen for some of the scenes. “Uncreative,” he added as an afterthought, because indeed, throwing in a couple of naked ladies wasn’t exactly the most creative move he’d made in his career.

_And to be honest,_ he reminded himself, _it’s mostly about diverting attention from myself._

“Ah, Marilyn.” Johnny looked hopelessly apologetic. “I’m so sorry-”

Brian groaned. “No – don’t you dare. I’m sick and tired of people letting me know how sorry they are.”

“Well.” Johnny smiled. “I could help you out. What do you say, a collaboration?”

Brian thought about it for a second, tilting his head to the side.

“Hm.” He shook his head. “Why would you do that?”

“We’re friends,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “We’ve collaborated on songs in the past-”

“Yeah, songs,” he almost snapped. “You’ve always wanted to be a musician, so I thought I’d do you a favor.”

“A-hum, and, as far as I know, you’ve always wanted to be an actor and a director, you cunt,” Johnny said and barked a laugh, annoyed and amused. “Why, Marilyn... why would you refuse? You know it’d be a great deal of fun.”

Brian considered this as he took a sip from his glass. _Just a lousy Virgin screwdriver_ , he thought, but it was still considerably more tolerable than that ginger shot, or rather ginger _shit_ , he’d been handed by his fitness instructor. He smacked his lips and said, “It could work,” and as he saw the pleased look on Johnny’s face, as if he’d been waiting for this, he laughed.

“What, you’re excited about wasting your talent on this?”

“Time you enjoy wasting is not time wasted,” the brunet answered, quoting John Lennon. “Besides, I’ve always adored your music, Marilyn. It’s hardly a waste of anything.” When Brian didn’t come up with a clever retort, he grinned victoriously and asked, “What’s the name of the song?”

“It’s ’KILL4ME’,” he announced, and the moment he said the song title, he realized how it sounded. It wasn’t just how it sounded though. When he’d written those song lyrics, he’d thought about the past. Suddenly feeling out of breath, he looked down at his hands, down at the words ‘WILL RUST’, and he suddenly sympathized with his drunk self.

“It’s… well, it’s supposed to be a criticism of all the mindless ‘I-love-you-to-death-songs’ that’s rampant on the radio…” He had some more orange juice, his throat suddenly feeling very tight and dry. The song wasn’t just about that. There was something to be said about his bitterness, and he’d gathered inspiration from, well, the bottomless well of disappointment that was his heart. At the center of that disappointment was Johnny and the brief, wonderous romance that had been everything. And after the conversation with Lily-Rose, he had started hoping for… something?

_Don’t even think about it, Brian,_ he scolded himself lightly, feeling sad. _The kid’s got it all wrong._

And yet he’d gone straight to the gym, wanting to get thin again.

Wanting to be good enough for Johnny.

_Pathetic._

“I, uh, I’ll let you listen to the album, of course. Before you make up your mind, I mean.”

“Charming,” was all Johnny said, and again he smiled and looked so beautiful it fucking hurt.

They left the dirty plates on the kitchen table and wandered into the living room. Lily White watched them out of the corner of her eye, only mildly interested in the visitor. Johnny hadn’t even noticed that the cat was resting in one of the armchairs; no, he was too busy looking at the rockstar with gleaming eyes. It didn’t matter how many times he’d stood in this room and watched the younger man, the sight still mesmerized him.

Brian had just sat down when he noticed that Johnny was watching him, and when he started feeling uncomfortable, as if he were being scrutinized, he grumbled and said, “What the fuck are you looking at, Depp?”

“You’ve got eyebrows.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Another good-natured smile. “You look good.”

That made him angry.

“Please,” he muttered darkly. “I don’t want your charity. I’m smart enough to know a lie when I hear one.”

As the singer said this, he looked down at his shoes, a sort of grief creeping into his eyes. He was ashamed, the actor realized, and they couldn’t have that. Johnny walked over to the couch, and as soon as he sat down next to him, he gave him an awkward sideways hug, pressing his face to his neck. He felt the heat radiating from him through the heavy leather jacket, and through the artery in his neck, he felt his pulse, a hard and yet faint sound of _bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum,_ a sound he’d heard a million times before, and yet the proximity was something else this time.

“What are you doing?” the raven-haired man asked, and the actor _heard_ how tense he was.

“Marilyn,” Johnny said quietly, voice rough. “I… I think you ought to know something. I, well, I care… a great deal, actually, and I wouldn’t lie… wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Aren’t you tired of this?” He asked the question carefully, not wanting to further upset Brian or make him angry, which would ultimately lead to another violent outburst. “Aren’t you tired of being so defensive all the bloody time?” he breathed against his skin, unable to tear himself away, wanting to touch, to linger for just a little while longer and to just _feel_. Wasn’t like he deserved to feel Brian, but he wanted to. Needed to.

“I swear,” he murmured when he wouldn’t answer, “sometimes you’re like a viper waiting to strike at the smallest provocation, and you do it because you’re scared of getting close… getting close to people… letting them see you for-”

“Are you deaf?” he barked, though without a bite. “Fuck. Off.”

“You’re impossible, Marilyn.”

“You’re a retard, Johnny.”

The older man rolled his eyes and gave a humored laugh. Then he started unzipping the heavy leather jacket the frontman was wearing. Brian raised an eyebrow at him, and when he didn’t get the hint, he said, “Johnny, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re in LA, you know,” the actor responded.

“… And?”

“ _And_ you’re wearing too much clothes, and I mean that in a strictly non-sexual context.” With that said, he pushed the jacket off his shoulders, revealing the black shirt and the stomach rolls he’d been trying to hide. At this, his face fell and he inched away to put some space between them, needing room to breathe. But Johnny wasn’t giving it to him. He was suddenly determined to put his hands on him, to finally be close, closer than they’d been in years, and Brian gave in, allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder. The closeness was new and strange, especially after all this time alone. It was bittersweet, equal parts painful and good in that the past came alive, memories he’d wanted to forget, and in the end, it left him speechless.

“I’ve missed you so terribly, my friend,” Johnny murmured, closing his eyes.

“I…”

“… Our relationship means the world to me,” he confessed, snuggling his head into his shoulder. “But I’ve been distant, in another world really, and it took me so long to get back to myself…”

Brian held his breath, wondering what to say, but in the end, he didn’t say a word. After a couple of minutes like that, close but not too close, he felt a hand sliding down his arm. Fingers intertwined with his, and he looked over and saw that Johnny was staring at him, his eyes suddenly saying all the things they couldn’t say to one another. But he continued to think about all the times Johnny had fucked him over, and even if he loved him and wouldn’t ever stop loving him, he couldn’t let that knife sink into his back for the umpteenth time. After all this suffering, he couldn’t survive another betrayal, and what was more, he couldn’t afford to lose his friend.

_Besides,_ he thought sullenly, _he doesn’t love me; he pities me._

_Remember that you’re among no one, you stupid cunt._

“I’m attending a movie premiere next month,” Johnny announced out of the blue, his voice barely above a whisper. As he asked the question, “Would you like to accompany me?” he gazed up at the singer’s face, his eyes so honest and vulnerable that he couldn’t quite process it.

_… Did he just ask…_

Brian’s now existing eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

_… Wait, what?_

He was about to respond when he was interrupted by a voice saying, “… Mazz?” Startled, they jumped away from each other as if burned, the feeling of horror evident on their faces. Slowly, they turned around and were greeted by the sight of the lunatic himself, Stephen, who wasn’t really all that crazy anymore but still. He stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes wide-open in shock, and Brian opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, wondering, _why, why, fucking why!?_ Because he couldn’t ever get a moment to himself, not even this, which, in spite of how much he doubted and partially hated everyone else, he recognized that he’d needed. Just a friendly hug in the privacy of his own bloody house, but nope, no such luck.

“… What the actual fuck?” Stephen said, frowning deeply at whatever it was he’d walked in on.

“Uh,” Brian said, now blushing. “I-”

“Frankly, I don’t want to hear it, Manson,” the keyboardist said, shaking his head. Only then did Brian see how tired he looked, his eyes red and his cheeks puffy. “I’m only here because of Twigs,” he informed him, and then he looked away, unable to keep himself from sobbing. There was something strangely terrifying about seeing a man such a Stephen cry, and the fact that he couldn’t help himself made it much, much worse.

“He’s…” He stopped himself mid-sentence and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “H-he’s at the hospital.”

“What, why?”

Another sob tore from his chest and he choked out, “H-he almost OD’ed,” sounding and looking nothing like the Pogo they both knew. To Johnny, it was unsettling. He hadn’t seen Pogo in a while, meaning years, and he looked almost normal now, like he’d finally conformed to society’s expectations of what a middle-aged man should be, and what was more, he was utterly heartbroken and lost, clearly having gone through something traumatic. And Johnny was familiar with the horrors of a drug overdose. The aftermath of the Viper Room incident was still fresh in mind, though he forced himself not to think about it. Just couldn’t deal with it.

“They didn’t want me in the ambulance, and… and I drove there, and I… I-I just need you there, Mazz.” He breathed hard and dried away tears and snot with the back of his hand, struggling to speak. “Jeordie… Jeordie too. He… oh, he’s felt like a disappointment, Mazz. Thinks everybody hates… hates him. You and me and everybody!”

Brian got up from the couch, his expression that of determination. He was clearly taking on the role of Marilyn Manson, the authority figure and leader of their little gang. It was a mask, Johnny decided. His Marilyn seemed strong, but on the inside, he was soft and, at times, fearful. He was, in spite of whatever crime had been committed, definitely scared of losing Twiggy, his best friend.

“He’s been depressed, and I should’ve known…”

The frontman put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder, squeezing it, saying, “Of course I’ll go with you, you idiot,” in an abnormally soft voice. Stephen immediately collapsed against the broad chest of his friend, sobs wracking his body. Brian said nothing, he just stood there for a moment, his head spinning with the bluntly delivered news. Johnny watched them both in confusion, and then he remembered the rape allegations, something they hadn’t really talked about. The band members were all distraught about it, about how they couldn’t defend themselves against what was essentially just allegations, word against word, and he’d realized that, thus he hadn’t probed. 

“Alright, let’s go to the hospital,” the frontman said, letting out a deep sigh. How he wished his life could be normal for just a couple of months, but no, he couldn’t ever have some peace and quiet. If he ever thought to himself, ‘Finally things are quiet’, he’d get the backlash of the century.

Johnny shot him a sympathetic look and said, “Call me,” to which he responded with a curt nod of the head.

* * *

Johnny knocked on the bedroom door and, without waiting for a response, opened and went inside. His daughter lay huddled in the bright pink bedclothes with her iPhone in her hands, and she lowered it from her face, revealing a slightly worried frown. When the actor remained still, she said, “Hi, Dad?” in an unnaturally light voice, unnerved by the silence. “What’s up?”

“Oh, what’s up?” he repeated. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Johnny looked hard and searchingly at her, challenging her to speak, but, when she wouldn’t say a word, he sighed and rubbed his face as he plonked down on the purple ottoman by the desk. He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, noticing how tense and wide-eyed she was, and he caught her completely off guard by asking, “The jacket, does it belong to Marilyn?”

For a second there, she looked like a cornered animal, her eyes darting around the room, undoubtedly trying to think of an excuse or a believable story, but then she gave up, putting her phone down. As she sat up on the bed, she gave him a sad little smile, a smile that made his stomach churn. He already knew that she knew a hell a lot more than she’d ever let on, and wherever this conversation was going, it wasn’t going his way.

“It does.”

“Why was he here?”

“Well, duh.” She rolled her eyes. “He was looking for you.”

His mouth went dry.

“… Why did he stay?”

“Oh, you know…” She grinned deviously and tucked her legs under her so she sat cross-legged on the bed. “I just thought it fair to let him know that you moved back to LA to be with him.”

The brunet sucked in a lungful of air through his mouth, but to no avail, his chest still felt like it’d been filled with cement, all cold and heavy. He wanted to yell at her, wanted to ask why she’d poked her nose where it didn’t belong, but he just stared at her, confused. Why would his sweet daughter do something like this? It wasn’t like her.

“… Why?” he rasped.

“I know everything,” his little girl responded, her voice almost rueful. “And even if I hadn’t overheard you and Mama talking about it – _arguing_ about it,” she added, and her face hardened with a kind of long-suppressed rage she hadn’t yet explored. “I still would have understood it.”

“… What exactly are you talking about, Lily-Rose?”

She gave a snort, thoroughly disappointed in him. 

“You’re in love with Uncle Manson,” she said, and Johnny, in spite of being a famous actor, winced. She saw and knew she’d hit the mark. 

“No,” he denied, and then, as she gave him that unimpressed look that meant ‘I-know-you-better-than-you-think’, he gave up. “Ok, fine,” he said with a sigh. If she’d already talked to Marilyn about it, what could he possibly say to make things look better? He imagined that such a secret hadn’t just slipped from the singer’s lips; she must’ve manipulated him, outsmarted him, and it really irked him because somehow a teenager had cracked the Antichrist, something he, after all these years, still didn’t know how to do.

“You’re too damn smart for your own good,” he muttered sourly, annoyed with her.

“Mama said, ‘It’s all because of that rockstar friend of yours’, so no, I didn’t need to be smart to figure it out.”

“… And what did Marilyn say to all of this?”

“He got all flustered.” She looked down at her perfectly manicured nails for a second, stalling. “Poor Uncle Manson,” she muttered dryly, mockingly almost. “He doesn’t understand how you can like him.”

“He-,” Johnny cut himself short, thinking the better of it. “So that’s why he’s become a fitness freak all of a sudden.”

She gave him a questioning look. “What?”

“He’s trying to lose weight, I think.”

Lily-Rose’s expression slid into a frown, one that told Johnny she didn’t approve. Anger crept into her voice as she said, “Because he feels like he isn’t good enough for you,” and the truth of it all hit Johnny in the face like a fucking shovel. Then she shrugged, feigning disinterest. “But hey, you’re both grown-ups. You can talk to each other rather than to me, right? After the last, oh, I don’t know, fifteen years of negativity, I’m done being in the crossfire.”

He nodded, his heart clenching at what she’d said, suddenly very aware that her childhood hadn’t been as happy as he’d thought.

“You… you mean the divorce, right?”

She gave an affirmative nod, letting out a quiet, “Mm.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Her eyes grew watery then. Her shoulders slumped.

“Yes, well.” She looked down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them. “Saying ‘sorry’ doesn’t really make it better, Dad.”

“Mama and I just wanted what’s best for you guys. I promise you that.”

“That’s not it,” she almost hissed. “I know you think that, but it isn’t your marriage – no, I-I…” She drew in a deep breath, trying her best to stay calm. “That’s not why I’m upset.”

“… Then why?”

“It’s unfair,” she began, her voice low and tired, “that you kept it from us – and that you fought so hard over a relationship that was already beyond repair.” She dried a tear from just below her eye, sniffling as she tried her best to keep it together, but she was done being quiet. “We grew up in the crossfire, and we heard every goddamn argument, you know? We’d hide in the next room or in the stairwell, and we’d hear everything.” She shook her head, biting down on her lip. “Everything, Dad.”

That broke his heart.

“Oh, sweetie,” he whispered hoarsely and put his arms around her lithe body. She was rigid with tension from holding back her pain, every muscle tensed to keep it all from falling apart, and he realized how strong she’d been for him, how put together and mature, and no, it wasn’t fair. “I’m endlessly sorry,” was all he could say, and she cried openly, her body shaking as terrible sobs tore from her chest, sobs that made him want to cry with her. 

“J-just don’t make a mess of this,” she whispered back. “Uncle Manson loves you, after all.”

“He said that?”

She tensed up again, wondering how in the seven hells he could be so dense.

“A blind man would have seen as much, Dad.”

“… Ah.” He frowned.

“He loves you,” she repeated.

“But you… you approve?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer. “Of such a thing?”

She pulled back from the embrace looking enraged, asking, “Are you daft or something?” which made him cringe.

“Do you think he’s beneath you or what?” she asked, and while she tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact and carefree, she couldn’t completely hide the quiver in her voice, a quiver Johnny knew all too well. His daughter was utterly disappointed that he could be so cruel to her Uncle Manson – a sensitive man who hadn’t experienced too much kindness in his life – and he couldn’t help but to agree with her. He’d done wrong by him a million times the last decade, and it was embedded in their friendship, their relationship, seeing as he’d always choose Vanessa over him, even when he couldn’t hide behind his many excuses.

“If you’re in love with him, you’re a fool to look to others for approval,” she told him coolly. “The only person who has to approve of this is you!”

She was right, so bloody right.

“I wish I’d been strong back then,” he said quietly, and for a moment, he contemplated telling her how dreadful Vanessa had been, how cruelly she’d blackmailed them to get it her way, but that wouldn’t be fair either. She’d been a good mother, a loving and fierce mother, and he couldn’t and wouldn’t take that away from her. Their daughter sat here before him, a beautiful and intelligent girl, and it was the fruit of their labor. A collaboration. And while she was right about his cowardice, she didn’t understand what deep wounds could have been inflicted upon her had they gotten a divorce back in the day. Vanessa had been out for blood, after all, and if she’d brought to light how he’d abused drugs, how he’d slept around with Marilyn Manson and nursed bottles of wine, he would’ve lost the custody battle.

But Lily-Rose didn’t need to know any of those things.

_Some things are better left unsaid_ , he told himself, reasoning that the daughter shouldn’t be punished for the crimes of the mother, and if she ever stumbled upon these truths, these facts, it would be of her own volition, not his.

“You can be strong now,” she said confidently, putting all her faith in him. “You can make things right now… with me, with Jack and Uncle Manson.”

He smiled at her.

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart.”

“I’m _always_ right,” she joked, her dark eyes twinkling mirthfully. Then she yawned and stretched, her head heavy on her shoulders. It was late in the evening and she was exhausted, and this little heart-to-heart conversation hadn’t exactly been revitalizing. What teenager wanted to aid their parents by playing matchmaker? She hadn’t asked for it. She’d been meddling, sure, but after seeing how dim-witted and, quite frankly, daft they both were, she’d known they’d needed a push in the right direction. And perhaps girls were better at these sorts of things? Feelings, love and everything between.

“You’re very bright for your age,” he agreed tenderly. “When I was your age, I’d sneak out and drink moonshine with my pals. Not as quite as bright.”

“Maybe I sneak out and drink moonshine with my friends – occasionally.”

He laughed softly at what she’d said, aware that she didn’t even enjoy the taste of wine and would, most likely, retch if she’d even just caught a whiff that home-brewed moonshine. He intended to tell her as much, but when he saw her blinking her eyes blearily, opening her mouth to yawn, he decided they’d talked enough and too far into the night.

“I see you’re tired,” he commented in a low murmur.

“Maybe just a little bit.”

“I’ll let you sleep. Isn’t good to stay up all night.”

“… You mean like you do?”

He flashed her a toothy grin and said, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

As she slipped back under the covers, she closed her eyes and said, “Yeah, goodnight, Dad,” and after a pause, thinking over the conversation, she whispered, “It will all work out in the end, you’ll see.”

“Ah, I hope so,” he whispered back and pressed his lips to her forehead, smiling against her soft, unblemished skin. They’d done a good job raising her, and even if he’d been a coward, even if he _was_ a coward, she’d somehow developed a strong sense of justice, of right and wrong, and he thought that was the best gift he could’ve received. Hopefully she’d always stay true to herself. Then he’d be proud.


	6. KILL4ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life is a mess right now. I'm posting the last chapters now. I won't return after that. I'll be leaving everything behind now. Thank you for all the beautiful comments. I really appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you.

January 12, 2017

Los Angeles, California

The studio was cold. Someone had apparently tampered with the air-condition and it’d never felt more like Scandinavia in Hollywood, Brian decided. The two girls – actresses slash models – were standing half naked by the bed, only clad in thin robes, chatting away with one another like this wasn’t all fucking absurd. Brian still hadn’t stripped down and wore his new leather pants and black shirt, and in spite of the low temperature, his palms were sweaty and he was self-conscious about the wet spots on his shirt, most notably on his back and armpits. He’d lost a little bit of weight, of course, but after the whole ordeal with Jeordie, the nearly fatal overdose on prescription pills, he’d just started eating lots of junk again and felt terrible about it, and the task of removing his clothes made him feel… anxious? He fucking hated it. And he couldn’t yell at his staff either. This was, after all, orchestrated by him and he only had himself to blame.

 _Thought I’d be thin by now_ , he thought sullenly and considered throwing a hissy fit over the lukewarm coffee he’d been handed, but the mood would only sour and everyone would hate his guts. Well, more than usual.

“… Fuck this shit,” he mumbled to himself, taking a sip of the foul broth.

Johnny, who’d been in the dressing room for about thirty minutes getting his make-up and hair done, appeared in the doorway. He wore a white towel around his waist and looked like a Greek god, and alright, a short god but a god nonetheless. When he saw Brian standing awkwardly by the cameras, he grinned and walked up to him, not at all minding the fact that he was in a state of undress. To him, this was all business as usual.

“Marilyn, why-”

“I’m not so sure about this anymore,” the rockstar said quietly, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of the two girls, both of them drop-dead gorgeous, muses of the ancient world. No, it’d be better if it was just them and Johnny.

“Oh, no-no-no, Marilyn,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “You’re not giving up. We’ve been planning this for weeks!”

“But-”

“No buts.” Johnny pointed at the bed, at the models and the props. “We’ve all worked hard, and it’s all for you.”

“Alright, alright.” Brian sighed, feeling more than a little defeated. “I’ll do it.”

“Ah, yes, of course you’ll do it.” Johnny offered him a good-natured smirk and grabbed his hand, which was also not a normal thing for him to be doing, at least not in a professional setting. “There’s nothing to be worried about. Everything looks fine and swell and the video will be wonderful.” He squeezed his hand. “Alright?”

Before Brian could say that it wasn’t so much about the video as it was about him feeling uncomfortable, Johnny let go of his hand and started tugging on his shirt, trying to get underneath it. The musician gave a startled yelp, which in turn made everyone stare at them, at Johnny Depp actively trying to undress Marilyn Manson, and the whole room went from stunned silence to hysterical laughter in a split second. Johnny laughed too, not at all embarrassed, and Brian, who was very embarrassed, swatted his hands away while grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, something that sounded very similar to, ‘Would you stop molesting me in front of my staff,’ and the actor laughed even harder.

“Tell me,” he began, “when did you become such a prude?”

Brian sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t like being naked in front of a fucking audience,” he admitted through clenched teeth, his cheeks turning bright pink. “And this really isn’t ideal.”

Johnny frowned.

“Wasn’t that your career?”

“When I was young.”

_And thin. And handsome._

Johnny shrugged and removed his towel, showing off the peach-colored patch they’d used to cover up his genitals. The younger man drew in a deep breath, wondering why he’d said yes to this – to becoming sexually frustrated in front of his crew, in front of his producers and assistant and everyone else he had to see on a regular basis. What if he got hard? Well, alright, they’d think it was hot babe one and hot babe two and certainly wouldn’t suspect that Johnny was the culprit, but still!

 _This sucks_ , he thought while chewing on his lower lip. _So hard._

Johnny stopped laughing for a second and noticed how tense and downright scared the artist seemed. He sighed and said, “Can we talk for five minutes in the dressing room?”

Brian arched an eyebrow at him and said, “If you put that towel back on. Don’t want any rumors about us.”

“Marilyn,” the actor said. “After this video is released, there will be plenty of rumors about us.”

“Alright, fuck this.”

“No-no, calm down.”

They walked inside the dressing room, barked at a member of staff, informing him that he needed to make himself scarce or be scarred for life, and once they were alone and the door had been locked, Johnny produced a bottle of green stuff, stuff Brian shouldn’t be drinking while on his diet, but since he’d already had a hamburger that day, he decided there wasn’t a point in not taking a sip, if only to soothe his frayed nerves.

“Man,” he groaned after his first shot of the day. “That’s the stuff.”

“Shh,” Johnny said, still smiling. “People will think we’re doing something naughty in here.”

“We are doing something naughty in here; I’m cheating on my diet, aren’t I?”

Johnny rolled his eyes.

“How very suburban of you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, can I somehow persuade you to take your clothes off?”

He took another sip of the absinthe and said, “Don’t be smart.”

“We’re already running terribly late, Marilyn.”

“So?”

“People will pack up and go home.” Johnny shook his head. “They’re already ticked off.”

“Good,” he grumbled. “The fewer the better.”

The actor rolled his eyes at the melodrama – as if anyone cared if they caught an eyeful – and reached for another nude patch that had been left behind by the costume department for the singer to wear. “Now, please strip for me, Marilyn,” he murmured, handing him the patch. The singer stared at it for a second.

“It isn’t big enough,” he declared, and if he hadn’t sounded to dreadfully sad, Johnny would have joked about having seen him in the nude more times than he could count and it wasn’t that big. There was something about his eyes, a haunting look he’d seen often lately. He didn’t want to be naked because he felt fat – big – and he’d rather the nude patch covered every inch of his body.

“Hey,” Johnny said with a sigh. “You’re beautiful, Marilyn.”

“Not this again,” Brian groaned.

“I’m not pitying you.”

There was a knock on the door. The singer shifted back in his seat, not wanting to deal with this.

“Are you two lovebirds done screwing in there?” the director asked, and his voice was laced with impatience, clearly annoyed that he wouldn’t be home in time for dinner. “We need you out here right now, d’you hear me? Your models have another assignment after this, and my kids want to see me before bedtime, so you better get moving.”

“Alright, boss!” Johnny yelled back, briefly wondering what the crew were thinking.

“I’ll fire the asshole,” Brian threatened, though he said it very half-heartedly and was angrier with himself than with anyone else.

“You’re the one not doing your job, Marilyn.”

“I know that, for fuck’s sake,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Johnny handed him the bottle and told him that Dutch courage is better than no courage, and the singer couldn’t protest and drank greedily from the bottle, already feeling the buzz of the alcohol. He hadn’t had anything in a while and his tolerance had hit rock bottom. Taking the current situation into consideration, it was a blessing. Johnny, who saw the shadow lifting from his face, put his hand on his knee and said, “Let’s get you ready”, and the singer nodded solemnly and got up from the bench. Johnny, still seated, put his hand on the younger man’s abdomen, the touch startling both men. They stared at one another, and then they laughed, though breathlessly.

Johnny tugged on his shirt until it came free from his pants. Everything about the scenario was off; Brian saw that from the outside. The actor, naked save for the nude patch, sat on the bench before him with his hands on his shirt, trying to undress him.

“Marilyn,” he almost breathed, his name sounding so right when Johnny spoke it aloud, almost like a pet name. No one else called him Marilyn. Only Johnny did that.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t intend to be rude, but would you remove your shirt, please?”

He stripped off his shirt without further protest. Then, when the cold air hit him like a brick wall, he realized what he’d done and how horrible he looked compared to the man before him, compared to the toned chest and tanned skin, and he almost whimpered, feeling so utterly worthless. He wanted to apologize and say he’d tried so hard to get thin again, but it was a curse. No matter what he did, the belly fat remained and he felt so bloated and disgusting it was hard to come to terms with it, with how this was what he looked now, and he’d probably never get back to how he used to be.

“… Don’t, Marilyn,” was all Johnny said, feeling helpless. Anything he had to say was perceived as pity and he wouldn’t risk an argument today, not with a crew waiting for them in the next room.

“I’m ugly,” the singer said. “Really ugly.”

Johnny shook his head but didn’t say a word, stunned.

There was another knock on the door.

“Boys,” the director said, and he sounded like he wanted to skin them alive, absolutely ticked off.

Johnny unbuttoned his pants and said, “I’d still do you,” and grinned deviously, ignoring the man outside the door.

 _As if_ , Brian thought and rolled his eyes at him. Then, as Johnny cupped his junk through the fabric of his pants, he gasped through his teeth, his dick immediately springing to life. Which was, of course, exactly what he’d been trying to avoid, but he couldn’t even think about that, not when Johnny was touching him like that, and he glared at him and said, “Better finish what you’ve started,” though without conviction. The actor smiled and declared, “Later,” which sounded about as sincere as a prostitute’s orgasm. He didn’t have time to complain. Someone kicked the door and delivered a string of profanities in Spanish, and they both knew they had to get the job done before there was a fucking riot, every member of staff disgruntled because of the late hours.

“Coming!” Johnny yelled, and seeing the look on his friend’s face, which was reminiscent of a kid who’d just been cheated into doing his homework, he laughed. Then he yanked down his pants – _and_ underwear. The cold air assaulted him, making him wince, and he winced again when Johnny slapped on the nude patch and said, “Good to go,” which was undoubtedly the overstatement of the year. Brian took a swig of the absinthe and said, “ _Now_ I’m good to go,” hoping it’d be enough to get him through the day.

“Why did you ever quit the alcohol?” Johnny asked as he got up from the bench, eyes gleaming.

“I’m on a diet,” the singer shot back, irked and intrigued and ready to get it all over with. The sooner he got back home, the sooner he could get wasted, diet or no diet.

When they exited the dressing room, all eyes were on them. To his great astonishment, they all appeared more pissed off than curious about whatever exchange of words had just occurred, and while everyone was staring at Johnny, half naked and godlike as he was, he couldn’t help but to wonder if he’d truly become outdated. In a way, it made him feel relieved. Maybe everyone would be too focused on Johnny to notice that he looked like a beached whale? The two models, now wearing skimpy but sexy lingerie that left little to the imagination, were already touching the actor with eagerness in their eyes, probably delighted about the whole project, and Johnny being Johnny didn’t try to deter them. But when he looked over his shoulder and saw Brian staring at them with a frown on his face, he winked and waved him over.

“Hey, Manson, I think you should be wearing this,” the director declared. He was holding a cheap blonde wig in his hand.

“Uh,” was all the singer could say, and then Johnny laughed and snatched it from the man’s hands.

“Lovely idea.” He put the wig on Brian’s head, the plastic locks reaching him just below the chest.

“Stunning, just stunning,” he declared.

Brian wished he’d had some more of the absinthe. He was still sober enough to feel the sting of humiliation. The idea wasn’t stupid; it would add another level of sinfulness to the already grotesque video. Transphobic America had to look at Marilyn Manson having a foursome – not a threesome – with Johnny Depp. _And_ with a blonde wig on his head. Still, he felt terribly uncomfortable. At least on a personal level.

“Just imagine what people will think,” Jonah said, giggling.

“They’ll think Marilyn has come back twice as bad as before,” the actor responded with a sly smile. 

Then, once they’d put Johnny in a white shirt that was a thousand times sexier than a stupid blonde wig, they started shooting the video. The song came on and he sang with it as he moved on the bed, the girls arching into his touch and moaning like he was the sexiest piece of work they’d ever seen. And again, it was about as sincere as a prostitute’s orgasm.

The scenes with Johnny were awkward. He felt overly aware of every little touch, and the foursome demanded so much attention to touch. And when Johnny suddenly rolled on top of him, which sure as fucking hell wasn’t in the script, his brain melted and he had a hard time following the lyrics. The girls were at a loss for a second there, but being professionals, they went along with it, toying with one another like it’d been the plan all along.

Johnny kissed him along the neck and he produced a moan that was a far cry from acting, and he rolled his hips against his, his hardness pressing into him even through the stupid ass nude patch. Brian felt delirious. He wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on. Then Johnny pulled off the wig, pressed his open mouth to the singer’s in a swift, hard kiss that threatened to unravel them both. His hands went down to his buttocks, lifting him from the mattress so the thrusts seemed more realistic. Just when Brian thought he might faint, the actor winked at him and continued with one of the models, fondling her.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Brian knew he was blushing hard and dived face first into the second girl’s cleavage. Her skin was soft and she smelled like cherry flowers and summer, but he didn’t really want to touch her. She was lanky and awkward in that young kind of way, much like he’d been twenty-five years ago.

When the director’s voice cut through the air, screaming, “Cut!”, everything came to a screeching halt. The music ended and everyone scurried away; they’d already worked two hours overtime and were extremely happy about going home. Even the models seemed relieved, but even so, they stayed behind to talk to Johnny for as long as he was interested in chitchatting about the stupid video, and when he eventually said, “We should call it a day, girls,” they’d smiled and hugged him, never mind the fact that they weren’t wearing any clothes and their nipples were hard, fleshy knots that Johnny must’ve felt. Once they were gone, he sat down next to Brian on the bed and grimaced, his smile completely gone.

“Not much older than my sweet pea,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Too eager to please an old man.”

“Depp,” Brian said, rolling his eyes. “You’re still considered the sexiest man on planet earth. They don’t give a fuck about your age. They completely ignored me and I’m an old fart too.”

_Hell, I’m even in charge of this entire operation. They should be kissing my ass._

Johnny grinned.

“You’re an acquired taste, my friend.”

“That’s what my old man says about Dylan.”

“That’s-”

“Hey, are you two idiots staying here or what?” the director asked, sounding and looking like he wanted to strangle someone. He stood by the cameras with one hand on his hip, his face a bright red color and his eyes narrowed into slits.

“Jonah, don’t take this the wrong way, but please, fuck off,” was all the rockstar had to say about it. The director, who was notorious for being a cranky dude, sighed and said, “Fine, but then you get to lock up the place,” and threw his keys on the bed. “And no hanky-panky in here,” he added cruelly, still wondering what the fuck the two men had been doing in the dressing room for half an hour.

“I’ll fuck wherever I want to,” the singer snapped, and Johnny, who found himself at the receiving end of this joke, put his hand on his arm and gave him a strange look. Jonah just said, “Suit yourself, Manson,” and flipped him the bird. When the last member of staff had disappeared, he left in a hurry, angry and eager to get out of there, and shouted, “I need those keys back by Monday!” as he slammed the large metallic door shut. Then there was only silence. The two men, nearly naked and wrapped in white sheets, looked at one another, and started laughing.

“If this hasn’t been traumatizing, I don’t know what is,” the singer commented, holding up the blonde wig.

“It was a good idea,” Johnny argued. “At least if Jonah’s vision’s what I think it is.”

“I’ll leave it up to him. I’m too sick of all of this to give a rat’s ass.”

“Because of Jeordie?”

The question devoured what had remained of his courage that day. His throat tightened and he just wanted to punch something – anything – and bring chaos to the world. He didn’t though, he just stared at Johnny and wished he’d get the hint, but Johnny being Johnny, of course he didn’t.

“… He’ll be fine,” the actor said, and Brian gave a contemptuous snort because Johnny couldn’t promise him that anything would be fine, especially Jeordie. He’d collapsed and kept on collapsing because all he’d worked so hard to accomplish had just vanished within the blink of an eye, and it was incomprehensible. Even so, Brian couldn’t help but to loathe him for the relapse. He wasn’t just making his own life hell. Stephen’s life had spiraled out of control too, and fucking shit, Brian’s own quality of life hadn’t exactly improved. If he lost Jeordie to addiction, to an OD, he’d lose his best friend.

_My only good friend._

_… And my brother._

And for what? He understood that it was hard to deal with rape accusations, especially when all the details had been shared on Facebook, meaning _everyone_ knew, but fuck, Brian had suffered through a couple of ordeals himself and had soldiered on. He hadn’t caved in after Columbine, had he? Just getting out of bed had been horrible, aware that he’d hear his own name the moment he switched on the damn TV, but he’d done it. He’d pulled through. But Jeordie? No.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

“He’s a mindless junkie again.”

“He’ll be fine,” Johnny said for a second time. “And sober.”

The raven-haired man gave a mirthless laugh and mumbled that, “He’ll be fine and sober when he’s dead,” and was again reminded of the losses he’d dealt with the last couple of months. He felt like he was swimming in an endless sea of tar. It was impossible to get away or even get a breath, everything so black and messy.

Johnny didn’t respond. Instead, he put a hand on his cheek, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Marilyn,” he murmured silently, his eyes dark liquid pools so full of emotion. “Lean on me.”

For a second there, Brian couldn’t for the life of him understand what Johnny meant by that. The second it hit him that Johnny was truly reaching out a hand, wanting to be there for him, his first instinct was to slap some sense into the man, but then he just gave up. He couldn’t argue with him anymore, he realized, because it took so much energy, and he didn’t have energy to spare.

“… I’m lost,” he admitted.

“We all are at certain times in our lives.”

He swallowed thickly and thought, _I’m not talking about this bullshit anymore._

“… What the hell was that thing in the dressing room?”

“You mean your erection?”

“I mean you… what you did, you piece of shit.”

“I just grabbed your junk.”

“Why?”

Johnny smiled. “Ah,” he murmured, shifting so they sat closer to one another. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t fucking know why.”

Johnny opened his mouth to say something. The word, “You,” came out, but then he cut himself short and started laughing instead. The singer fixed him with an unimpressed look and grumbled, “Fuck off,” for the millionth time. He then pulled the sheets closer around his body, remembering that he was more or less naked and that he’d somehow agreed to it.

“Given the movie premiere any thought?” the brunet asked, deciding not to address the elephant in the room, not when Brian was so self-conscious. “It’s next week, and with the album coming up… Well, it would be clever of you to accept.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “I’ll join you – unless that junkie piece of shit tries to kill himself again.”

Johnny offered him an almost apologetic smile and said, “He’s getting help at that fancy place, remember?” And it was true enough. A thin and frail Jeordie had been shipped off to Texas to some facility that could perhaps help him get through the worst of the shitstorm. An equally exhausted Stephen had joined him, and as they’d said their goodbyes at the hospital, they’d all cried a little and hugged each other, hoping there would be a solution to their predicament.

“Let’s hope it works.”

 _Or else I’ll kill him myself,_ he thought sullenly, angry with Jeordie and even angrier with Jessicka, but it was best not to dwell on it, not while he was in rehab and Jessicka untouchable. _That’s ‘me too’ for ya._

Johnny got up from the bed, the sheets still wrapped around his waist. When he turned around and saw that Brian was red in the face – his standard look of embarrassment – he grinned and let the garment drop to the floor. His bum was on display and Brian went from red to crimson. Even his ears were red. Nothing could bring the actor more pleasure than seeing the Antichrist blush. It was beautiful.

“What are you doing, Depp?” he asked through clenched teeth, but in spite of his anger, he drank in the sight of him, of limbs that were so beautifully crafted he couldn’t quite understand it. Of warm brown eyes and a smile so charming it made little women faint.

“… We should get dressed,” Johnny said and held up the key. “As much as I love to lie naked in bed with you, I don’t think this is the time or place for it.”

Even as he said this, he stood perfectly still and didn’t as much as look at the door. There was a challenging look in his eyes, something Brian didn’t really pick up on, too intoxicated by the sight of his nakedness, by the sight of his flawless being, and it shocked him. He wasn’t able to stop goggling him, something that brought on a feeling of shame, even if Johnny knew what he was doing. His dick was hard and he wanted to just reach out and touch him, and it was purely sexual and he didn’t _want_ to have sex. Not really. He just wanted to be close to another human being, to feel appreciated and whatnot, and it was too human. It hit him like a sack of potatoes over the head. He was unnervingly normal under it all, under the dramatic make-up and menacing persona he’d made up for himself.

 _I’m Marilyn Manson_ , he reminded himself. _And I can’t be normal._

_I can’t want to be with him._

_Can’t._

“… I’m going home,” Brian announced, feeling that ugliness in his chest, that tight and violent feeling that came over him when provoked.

Johnny’s smile fell away.

“… But Marilyn,” he said, desperation etching away at his voice. “I know what-”

“You’ve talked to Lily-Rose,” he said, and his mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls.

Johnny nodded.

“The jacket…”

“It’s mine. And I… I shouldn’t have talked to her, but she confronted me and caught me off guard, and I – I just told her some crap she shouldn’t have had to hear from her uncle.”

“It’s fine, Marilyn,” he said reassuringly. “I know everything.”

He sat down next to the rockstar, their shoulders touching.

“… Do you… do you want to talk about it, love?”

 _Love?_ He knitted his brows, an angry vein popping out of his forehead. 

_He doesn’t have that privilege anymore._

_Not in a million fucking years._

He clenched his fists, counting to ten and twenty inside his head.

“I’m sorry, I just… I can’t fucking do this, Depp,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it sure as hell isn’t right! You can’t keep showing up on my doorstep whenever your perfect little life is crumbling because _you_ made a bloody mess of it all.” He wanted to laugh but all that came was a strangled noise, a sob of sorts, and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, a bullet ripping through flesh and muscle, and he wished he hadn’t ever accepted Johnny’s offer; he wished they hadn’t collaborated on something as intimate as this. Old wounds were scratched open, so vulnerable to infection.

“That isn’t why-”

“No,” he said bluntly. “But the truth is that you wouldn’t be here, offering yourself to me like a piece of meat, if it wasn’t for the fact that Vanessa threw you out.”

“… Marilyn,” he whispered hoarsely, apologetically, but he didn’t want to hear it.

“I don’t want to be your plan B,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve already nearly killed me, Depp. And I don’t know why I’m still accepting your friendship – your advances – but I think it ends here.” He dared to make eye contact, though his eyes were wet and he was close to crying. “I-I’ve been hurting so fucking much, don’t you know that? After Hildesheim.” His jaw tightened, remembering the raw feeling in his heart and body after the intrusion, after having been taken advantage of, and even if it wasn’t rape, it was still abuse. He was old enough to understand that now, and it’d messed him up good.

It still did, because if he couldn’t trust Johnny, who could he trust?

“When you just… just did that,” he breathed without taking his eyes off him. “And then you showed up – like now – and begged me to _rape_ you. But of course, I wouldn’t ever do that to someone, not even your sorry ass! But I hit you, and it hurt me so bad, that I could just beat you up like that, and then… then you became my first real love, and I fucking adored you, and it was every…” He bit his lip, biting back the sobs and the words he couldn’t voice, the words ‘it was everything’, because yes, it had been everything. For the first time in all his years, he’d been in a relationship with someone he _loved_. But it just burned and turned into hatred, like every good thing in his life.

 _You’re among no one_ , he reminded himself, and he reminded himself he shouldn’t ever give in to Johnny, especially not because he wanted to fuck his pretty little ass.

“And when you left me, I lost it all. My sanity… my fucking heart, do you get that? I can’t love… And now, _ten years_ down the road, you think I can just… just forget.” He laughed bitterly, furiously. “Well, I can’t!”

Johnny had gone quite pale listening to this. He had thought about all these things every day for as long as he’d known the rockstar, but hearing him say them aloud was like giving them life. It made his every mistake seem so fucking real, something that had been abstract for so long because Brian hadn’t ever said anything about it, not directly anyhow, and the gravity of the situation, of what he’d done back in Hildesheim, made him shiver. Made him sick to his stomach.

Brian wasn’t the monster. Vanessa wasn’t the monster.

He was.

“… My god,” he whispered, pressing a hand to his own cheek. And when Marilyn rushed past him, naked and with tears of rage running down his cheeks, he did nothing to stop him. In the end, the singer locked the door to the dressing room, and Johnny had been left in the studio, without clothes and without his phone, and he hadn’t been able to get home until he’d kicked in the door an hour later. When he’d called his personal assistant, he’d been teary-eyed and hoarse, and the road back home hadn’t ever felt so long, even from behind the large sunglasses he wore, shielding his emotions from the world.

When he saw the house, impersonal and modern as it was, his heart sank. Had it all been for nothing? Had he moved away from his kids for nothing? From the serenity of the French countryside?

The moment he saw his darling daughter, who was in the middle of a workout, he rushed over to her side and hugged her, crying. She didn’t ask what had happened, aware of where he’d been that afternoon, but told him that, “Things take time,” aware that some wounds weren’t easily mended. All Johnny said was, “I’m so sorry,” thinking about the sins she knew nothing about.


	7. Confessions

January 13, 2017

Los Angeles, California

He pressed play. Heavy, invasive rock music blared out of the two speakers, filling the silence with loudness that meant nothing, only a distraction from the thoughts that ate away at his sanity, at his mind, and he opened his mouth and screamed, screamed, screamed, wanting to alleviate the pain. When the song ended, his throat felt as raw and as tight as his heart, which, at least in his mind, he thought of as a mangled piece of purple, spoiled meat, rotted and destroyed after all the fucking bullshit he’d just gone through. His mother’s passing, Jeordie’s OD and, of course, the album that had been pushed back several times already. And then, as the moldy cherry on top, came yesterday.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, letting out a harsh breath.

Johnny had tried to get it on with him – and with an audience. He’d offered himself to him like the harlot he probably was. And what was even more enraging, Johnny had pretended the last fifteen years hadn’t happened. Like their friendship wasn’t as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. Like they hadn’t just reconnected.

 _Nothing’s sacred_ , he thought, gritting his teeth. _Nothing._

Johnny always changed his mind, again and again, and one moment Brian was as good as gold and the next he was dirt. Just when he started thinking he had a friend in him, that he’d outgrown his bloated ego, it all just blew up in his face. Again! And he’d never change. Fucking never. And Brian wouldn’t learn.

“… touched me today,” Bowie sang, his voice so full of despair. “… looked at you and counted all the times we had laid, pressing out love through the night, knowing it’s right, knowing it’s…”

_Not that song…_

_Not that-_

“We are the dead… we are the dead…”

Wetness spilled from his eyes. This betrayal ran deep, like another knife had been added to his back and the only way he’d ever get to sleep again was by taking another pill, another sip of green stuff, and he wanted to curse his own naivety. Didn’t matter how many goddamn times he thought ‘I’m untouchable because there’s nothing left to kill’, he was always mistaken. And the worst part was that he wouldn’t stop loving Johnny, not now, not ever, and it hurt him even more deeply. What he wanted, he couldn’t get. The best course of action would be to just cut the cord, quit him and never look back. To let it die.

How he wished he could’ve talked to Jeordie. Wished he could’ve told him everything.

He’d pushed him away, he realized. After Jessicka had made those disgusting allegations, he’d pushed him away, and he even knew why he’d done so. Maybe he wouldn’t ever be honest with himself about Hildesheim, about Johnny’s aggression, but he recognized the pain in his chest, the betrayal and bitter disappointment, and while he understood that he was projecting his anger onto the wrong person, he couldn’t really be in charge of his stupid ass emotions. In his heart, any assault was his assault. Funny he hadn’t jumped on the ‘me too’ bandwagon as well.

A knock on the door forced him to abandon his thoughts. At first, he was skeptical and thought it might be Johnny – who had a habit of turning up uninvited when he wasn’t at all welcome – but he’d told his staff not to let him inside. He turned off the music and walked over the door, and for a millisecond before opening it, he considered who it might be if not Johnny. When he was immediately wrapped into a hug and the scent of Old Spice assaulted his nostrils, he knew it was none other than his father, Hugh, and he felt guilt and happiness and sorrow all at once. He’d been ignoring his father lately. It wasn’t that they’d been fighting or anything, no, but Brian had been up to his ears with work. The album was about to drop, they’d been busy with the music video and he’d barely even been at home, more often crashing at the nasty old couch at the studio.

“Son,” the man said, pulling back. “Oh, you’re…”

“Sorry,” Brian was quick to say. He knew he looked like shit.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going-”

“Son,” his dad said, cutting him short. “You’ve been…” He stopped when he couldn’t quite say the word ‘crying’, perhaps a masculine shortcoming of his. Instead, he stared at him and shook his head, telling him, “You look absolutely miserable.”

“… I.”

“Here.” His father handed him a six-pack of cheap beer and smiled a sad little smile, as if he knew he wasn’t cut out to be a shrink and he was sorry he had to pretend to be one.

“I’m not Mom,” he began, his voice a world of calm and yet insecure, like this was unknown territory and he lacked competence. “And I’m… I’m not good at this.” He blinked owlishly. “You know, at talking and stuff like that, emotions and all. But I know you need a cold one.”

“Oh my,” Brian said, cracking a smile despite himself.

“It’s just Bud,” the old man cautioned. “Nothing fancy.”

 _Bless him_ , the rockstar thought and accepted the six-pack of poorly made beer that probably tasted like horse piss. Then he plopped himself down in the plush loveseat, a red, velvety thing he’d bought from an antique shop in Dresden, and his father, a bit sore here and there, sat down in the comfortable armchair with a deep, appreciative sigh. The beer cans opened with startled little zings, and the scent of beer, which reminded him of overripe fruit, made him consider buying it more often, but the moment the broth hit his taste buds, he was reminded of why he didn’t much enjoy it. He grimaced and looked at his Dad, who was of course grinning.

“Never been a fan,” the rockstar mumbled.

“I thought of getting some wine,” his father said, sounding almost apologetic. “But ah, your mother knew a thing or two about wine. I don’t.”

“It’s fine,” he assured him. “I don’t really drink wine either.”

“No, mostly absinthe,” the old man added dryly. “But I wouldn’t ever buy my son absinthe.”

The rockstar chuckled. “Agreed.”

“Had it overseas once,” his father mused. “I thought I saw this monstrous scorpion-spider crawling toward me on the bed.” He shuddered. “It was a dream, thank God, but I didn’t ever drink absinthe again. And your mother called me a ‘junkie’ after she found out!” He laughed, but the chuckle faded as he thought of Barb, of the corpse in the ground in that oddly green graveyard. “Imagine that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and there was a wistful gleam in his eyes. Brian saw and nearly flinched.

“A junkie, huh?”

“Well, she’d say that about everybody back then. Your grandma was addicted to prescription pills, after all, and she was terrified of ‘drugs’.”

 _Oh, the irony_ , the rockstar thought grimly.

“She never called me that?”

“No-no.” Hugh offered him a genuine smile. “She adored you.”

 _Adored,_ he thought, and suddenly the whole thing with Johnny seemed so much worse. It was as if he suddenly regretted his decision never to tell her, confide in her, and he had to look away.

 _She wasn’t sick when I fell in love with Johnny,_ he thought bitterly. _I could’ve told her._

“… So,” his father began, “what’s going on?”

“No, it’s nothing, Dad. Really.”

His father fixed him with an unimpressed look, one that said ‘you ain’t fooling nobody’.

“It’s about a lady, isn’t it?”

He frowned. “A lady?”

“I see you’ve been working out,” his father pointed out, and when the raven-haired man said nothing, merely stared at him like he didn’t understand, Hugh put his beer down and put his hand around his bicep, saying, “You’ve never had these before,” as if it was glaringly obvious that he’d been lifting weights. No one else had mentioned his round, muscular arms up until that point, something he’d worked hard to achieve, but his father had seen it. Brian was flustered for a moment, not knowing what to say.

“I, well, not – not exactly.”

His father shrugged. Something undefinable gleamed in his eyes.

“A guy?”

Brian laughed, surprised, and splurted out a mouthful of beer. The golden liquid trickled down his chin and neck, completely ruining his gray shirt. As he reached for a napkin, he muttered, “Fuck,” looking and sounding thoroughly embarrassed. His father arched an eyebrow, aware that he’d hit a nerve.

“Son?” he said, and Brian looked like a cornered animal, terrified.

“… I shouldn’t be discussing this with you,” he said hastily, and even that had been the wrong thing to say. His father already knew he’d gotten it right.

“You don’t have to discuss anything with me,” the old man said, and funnily enough, he didn’t look at all surprised or angry. “But I’m your dad. I want what’s best for you, even if I’m no talker.”

“I…”

“Son.” The old man looked at him, scrutinized him. “We’re two old fellas. We’ve both seen some stuff, and we weren’t born yesterday. Whatever you’re afraid of, just forget about it, alright? I’m not…” He lowered his eyes, clearing his throat. “I wouldn’t judge you.”

The singer didn’t know whether or not he could trust those words. Growing up, he’d always had to listen to his father abusing derogatory terms such as ‘faggot’, ‘homo’ or ‘fruitcake’. It was ingrained in his mentality, actually, and to be sitting here, discussing this, he almost felt like he was in some absurd dream world.

“… It’s about a person,” he finally managed to squeeze out, even if it hurt like a bitch. For a moment, he just looked at his dad, waiting for some horrible reaction that never came.

“Well, what’s going on with this person?”

“It’s… it’s Johnny,” he confessed, the name rolling off his tongue like it was the first time he’d ever said it.

“Ah, the pretty boy.”

Brian rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s pretty alright.”

Hugh looked as though this amused him greatly, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“What about him?”

“I…” The singer groaned and buried his face in his hands, not sure whether he should be telling his dad about such private matters. “We ended up in a weird fucking position yesterday, and I, well, I just left. I couldn’t deal with his bullshit anymore. He always ends up making a mess of it all, you know? It’s been… Jesus, I can’t believe I’m telling you any of this.” He drank some more beer, needing the bravado – and the distraction. All the while spilling the beans, his brain was screaming, ‘Don’t talk about this bullshit!’, but at the same time, his relief was palpable. It was as if a huge cyst on his back had been drained, a painful weight removed, and damn, he’d been keeping everything to himself, hadn’t he? What a sad realization.

Hugh cleared his throat. Brian’s eyes shot up from the beer can.

“You’ve been together for a while then?”

"We… had a – a fling fifteen years ago, but he, well, he was married with children, and he had to be a dad, which I understand, but it was hard to deal with, and now… fuck, he told me he moved here to be with me. Moved away from his kids.” He paused, staring at his hands, at the ‘WILL RUST’ tattoos that became truer for each passing day. He then gazed up and said, “And it… it infuriates me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because _he_ gets to make all the decisions. _He_ gets to say ‘now you’re good enough’ – _after_ his wife kicked him to the curb.” Rage made his cheeks go red. “It’s like… I’m his plan B. But I know it isn’t _really_ that way. His… his marriage was loveless, and the ex was just the craziest chick I’ve ever met. It was all for the kids on his part. A charade, really.”

“That’s a difficult situation.”

“I know.”

“But you love him, right?”

He went pale, his mouth dry.

“I…” He sighed, running his hand through his short hair. “Yeah.”

The older man needed a moment. He rolled the beer around in his mouth before swallowing it, and then, as he stared at his son, something in his head just clicked into place. There was something haunted about his expression that day. Normally, when he was going through hell on earth due to girls or the media or whoever else wanted to hurt him, he’d wear his aggression on his sleeve like a piece of armor. His rage had kept him afloat. But this was different somehow. It was like the anger had given way to sorrow. He wouldn’t say he knew his son half as well as he’d like to, but he knew that sorrow wasn’t an emotion he liked to parade. Usually, he’d spend so much energy on concealing it – burying it – and it led to a bunch of meltdowns. Sorrow could, after all, only be contained for so long. Then it turned into bitter resentment. Heartache. Aggression.

“Sometimes,” his father said, “you’ve got to let go of the past and embrace what’s right in front of you. The last eight years of your mother’s life was a rollercoaster, and I was there for it all because I love her – always will – and I couldn’t imagine waking up without her…” A pained look marred his features, and he looked thin and papery all of a sudden, almost like a strong wind would just whisk him away any second. “Now that I’m alone, I’ve got too much time to just think about all this stuff, about what I did wrong, about the silliest little mistakes, but…” He glanced up, making eye contact. “I did something right too.”

Brian gave a snort, pissed off.

“You were a great husband.”

A sad, knowing smile tugged at the old man’s lips.

“Yeah,” he said, giving a curt nod. “When I finally got my head out of my ass and stopped feeling sorry for myself.”

“’Nam’ll do that to a guy.”

His father shrugged. “I threw away so much time being depressed and angry with the world, with stuff I couldn’t change, and it hurt the two people I love the most. So, that’s one point, right? You wouldn’t be sad right now if you didn’t love this guy. The other point is that, well, it’ll be too late. Eventually, it’ll be too late, and you’ll regret that you let bitterness steer you in the wrong direction, and I can tell you right now, son, that bitterness will always be misguided. I was bitter when the disease took her away from me, but I stayed put, and… toward the end, she’d remember my name in the morning, but at night, she’d scream because she saw a stranger in her bed.” He smiled ruefully. “I was that stranger. But I can tell you right now, I lived for those mornings.”

Hugh thought about the things he couldn’t tell his son. He thought about how he’d wake up to her whispering his name, and they’d just stay in bed, warm and safe and tucked away from the world. They’d dance together in the parlor, walk hand in hand to the store, watch old movies and go through all the yellowing photos from a distant past, from their youth and Brian’s childhood. There were a couple of things they’d never get to experience – grandkids and seeing their son genuinely happy – and she’d always mention it those mornings. ‘Will there be grandchildren, Hugh?’ she’d asked him, and she’d been so very hopeful. ‘I don’t know, Barb,’ he’d tell her. ‘Maybe,’ he’d say as an afterthought. And it was a lie, a blatant lie, but she’d wanted to believe him, saying, ‘They will be beautiful,’ and they would’ve been.

“… I should’ve told her,” Brian whispered, his voice rough.

“What about?”

“That I love him.” He could have cried, his eyes wet. “That I’m not…”

_Straight. That I’m not straight._

“She wouldn’t have cared,” Hugh assured him. “Just like I don’t care.”

“That almost makes it worse.”

“Here,” his dad said, handing him another beer. “And don’t think about it too much.”

Later that night, when his old man had gone back home and he’d had three beers and some absinthe, he sent Johnny a text: ‘I’ll be there for the stupid ass premiere, but I’m not happy about it.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ Johnny responded. ‘And thank you.’

‘Fuck you,’ he typed furiously but didn’t send it, aware that he was being stupid.

An hour later, as he went to bed with Lily White next to him, purring like an old lawnmower, he started thinking that maybe, just maybe things would be fine between them. But he’d had to forget about Hildesheim, about the breakup, the times Johnny had tried to fuck him while he was engaged to Dita, the times he’d ignored him and the times he’d cried endlessly. About how he’d felt so inferior he’d started working out. About what he’d done yesterday, trying to get into his pants without much of a warning. And knowing what a jackass he could be, he had to forgive him for the stupid, braindead mistakes he’d probably make in the future. 

But more importantly, he had to understand that Johnny wasn’t that same man anymore, and that he was more honest and confident in himself now than fifteen years ago. Back then, he’d fallen out of love with Vanessa and in love with Marilyn Manson, and the world hadn’t been as open-minded back then. Their careers had been fragile. And because Brian had been a hopeless romantic, he would’ve gladly thrown it all away for Johnny. It was hard to grasp that he could have loved him as much and still ended their relationship, but he liked to believe that the sole reason for that were his two beautiful children. He liked to think it wasn’t about his reputation. But in the end, he had to forgive him anyways. If not, how would they ever move past it?

“I love the stupid idiot,” the singer whispered, and Lily White made a sound that reminded him of a sigh, like she was saying, ‘I know, human. I know.’ Then the sandman came, and he dreamed about his mother. They were in Canton, Ohio. It was summertime and they were on a picnic, like they’d often been, and he was maybe twelve years old and carefree. It was a perfect dream, one he’d earned.


	8. Novelty Boys

January 21, 2017

The moment he excited the limo, the cameras started flashing. After more than twenty years in the limelight, one would’ve thought he’d become bulletproof where the paparazzi were concerned, but being naturally shy – not that he’d ever confess to it – he couldn’t quite relax. And when Johnny got out exactly ten seconds later, they went wild, screaming and yelling. They were asking questions, no doubt, but he couldn’t make out any of the words and just moved toward the entrance, eager to get away. Johnny walked next to him, waving and smiling at the cameras like the charming son of a bitch he was. The singer rolled his eyes and hurried away, feeling severely displaced. What exactly he was doing next to Johnny on a red-carpet event, he didn’t know.

“Marilyn, wait up,” the actor murmured from next to him.

“Why the fuck did you bring me here,” he hissed back, eying him suspiciously. He was notoriously bad-tempered, hell yeah, but this went beyond simple anger. He didn’t want to be dissected by the prying eyes of the public anymore – yet here he was, and it was every bit as awful as he’d imagined.

“… You agreed,” the actor chuckled. “Good publicity, remember?”

He rolled his eyes.

_Publicity, my ass._

“You’re stressed,” the actor pointed out.

“Oh, am I?” he practically growled through his teeth. “Observant, are you?”

Johnny opened and closer his mouth a couple of times. Then, as his features softened, he said, “I know you, my friend.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brian waved him off. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that fans with doleful eyes were staring at them. Well, at Johnny to be more accurate. This pissed him off. He wasn’t here to be chaperoned by Johnny; the event wasn’t about him; Johnny had to do his goddamn job. And truth been told, Brian wasn’t just stressed, he was fucking upset and felt like everyone was staring at him because he was the odd one out. Obviously, he was. But he could do something about that, couldn’t he?

“Hey, you-”

“Johnny,” Brian said, slowing down. “Go sign some autographs, yeah?”

The movie star turned around and was greeted by an ocean of fans. That was hardly something new, but he felt somewhat guilty about the kids that stood so obediently behind the fence, staring at him and pleading for him to come show them some love. He offered the singer an apologetic smile and nearly ran over to greet his fans, flashing them that charming smile and cracking a few jokes. There was something about the way he carried himself, Brian thought. He was always so comfortable with this scenario – being in the spotlight – and he could chat and jest and feel absolutely at ease. Brian was almost envious of that ability. Right now, he would’ve gladly given his pinkie not to feel so out of place. Weren’t they all wondering what he was doing here with Johnny? With their golden boy? Weren’t they wondering why he’d dragged along this fat weirdo rather than a drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend? A twenty-five-year-old bimbo with flawless features who didn’t mind dating a man older than her father?

“There.” Johnny was next to him again, his breath hot against his ear.

“This night isn’t about me,” the singer mumbled, annoyed. “Don’t make it about me.”

The brunet hummed softly, his breath tickling his ear. Brian almost growled. Why, oh why hadn’t he put on his standard platform boots? Then his short midget of a friend wouldn’t be able to whisper into his ear like that.

 _Fuck this._ He bit down on his cheek and started walking toward the media wall. Again, he started to curse inside his head. He’d been told the background would be gray and white, but it was black. For this reason, he’d put on a pale gray suit. That’d make him blend in, but no-o, that’d been a blatant fucking lie if he’d ever heard one. The black background would of course create a stark contrast, and everything would be on display.

 _Great,_ he thought sullenly. _Just great._

Then he panicked a little. And he realized that he wasn’t supposed to be here. The photographers weren’t there to snap photos of him; they were there to see their beloved Jack Sparrow. With that in mind, he sped up, hoping to get inside the movie theatre before too many unflattering pictures had been taken.

The actor tried to keep up with his friend, but as the cameras started flashing, he came to a halt. Brian, too tangled in his own bad-tempered thoughts to notice, kept on walking toward the entrance. They weren’t supposed to enter just yet. No, first they’d have to pose in front of the media wall, try to look cheerful and charming, smile at the cameras, wave, wait for a bit and _then_ walk inside to watch the movie. Johnny said his name, said it loud enough for the interviewers’ and the photographers to hear. And he hadn’t simply said ‘Marilyn’, no, he’d said, “Brian,” and stared at him, a silly little smile plastered on his face. The singer stopped too. He stared at the older man, arching one brow, unsure of the significance of the use of his birthname, a name the older man hadn’t used in years.

“… Depp,” he whispered, his voice oddly distant.

“Come here.” The actor didn’t wait for him to move though, approaching him slowly with the attention of every cameraman, photographer and other person there. Their eyes locked on each other, and Brian, who felt the intensity of his stare, feeling as though his friend was trying to communicate something important, was suddenly straining so hard to look away, to redirect his thoughts. He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt uncomfortable, his heart fluttering like a caged bird. His throat hurt when he swallowed and heat rose to his cheeks, and thank God and Zeus and Odin that he was wearing his white foundation, a piece of armor shielding his emotions from curious onlookers. And there were plenty of hungry eyes glued to them right then and there, preserving the memory for posterity through their lenses.

“… What,” he started weakly, his eyes still glued to Johnny’s face. He briefly looked away, licking his lips.

“Don’t be shocked,” he cautioned him. Brian’s eyes shot back to his. He opened his mouth to ask ‘what the fuck are you on about’ but was rudely interrupted by the softness of his fingers curling around his hand. His eyes immediately flew down to see what he was doing, not quite grasping the severity of the moment. But when Johnny brought his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles, the letters ‘R’ and ‘T’ of his tattoo, his breath hitched. Realization hit him hard. His head was spinning. A moment of shocked silence followed, though the cameras went ‘click, click, click’, shooting him. Johnny grinned widely as he pulled back, though they were still holding hands, still standing too close to one another.

An interviewer broke the silence, the magic, and said, “Did I see that right?” before bursting out laughing.

“April fool’s, right!” someone else shouted.

“What?” the singer repeated slowly, his brain so confused he couldn’t really get mad.

“Ah, um, I think… it’s good for business,” Johnny said humorously, but his tone was uncertain, low. It went over the raven-haired man’s head. The answer, which struck him as reckless, as selfish, made his vision go red. The hell was he doing? Trying to drag him through the mud? Had he gone bejesus?

“Asshole,” he said coldly, his heart sinking. Had they been in private, he would have screamed himself hoarse telling him exactly what a piece of garbage he was to pull this kind of a prank.

“Marilyn-”

“I’m leaving right this fucking moment,” the singer declared, putting emphasis on each syllable like he thought the actor was too dense to understand his meaning. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were black pools of barely constrained anger. If looks alone could kill, Johnny would’ve been six feet under.

“Hey, give us a kiss, lovebirds!” one of the cameramen teased before whistling.

“Fuck off!” Brian spat, his expression turning grim.

“Brian,” the actor whispered, again deliberately using his birthname to get his attention. For a second, the shock rocker narrowed his eyes at him, wondering what kind of game he was playing. When nothing happened, he let out a resigned huff and grumbled, “Fuck off, Depp,” just wanting this endless teasing to stop. Last week in the studio was still fresh in mind and he’d only just decided to forgive him, and then he pulls this kind of bullshit? With an even bigger audience?

 _No, fucking no_.

“Hey, I-”

“I’m not in the mood,” Brian barked, struggling to keep his voice down. He was about to turn around and walk inside – away from this awkward situation – when Johnny pulled him forcibly into his arms and crushed his lips down on his, though from an odd angle. He had to stand on his tiptoes to deliver the kiss, and the kiss, in all its clumsy, messy glory, was now public domain. The cameras went off like machine guns. People were shouting, screaming and scraping their jaws off the pavement. And surely all of them were now convinced that Johnny had smoked his socks and should go to rehab for a few months. No one in their right mind kisses Marilyn Manson on the red carpet. No, no one in their right mind would ever kiss Marilyn Manson at all.

The kiss, if one could even call it that, ended as abruptly as it had started. They stared at one another, both of them breathless, their hearts pounding.

“… You’ve got lipstick on your mouth,” the singer pointed out dryly, his eyes dark and suspicious. 

“I find… I find that I don’t mind.” Johnny smiled tightly, not caring about how he held the larger man in his arms for the whole world to see. “And I… I never should have.” He blinked. “Minded, I mean.”

Only when they abandoned the media wall, the photographers and the other actors who stood around, gawking and talking amongst themselves, and went inside the vast building, did Brian notice that his palms were sweaty. Hell, he was _trembling_ , and he even felt light-headed, like he was drunk on nothing but air.

… And yet there was this warmth spreading through his chest. The old butterflies jolted to life inside his gut.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he thought as he stared at Johnny, who looked unfazed. Untouched. He was chatting away with his coworkers, smiling and laughing like nothing had happened.

A waitress in black uniform walked by with a tray of drinks, heading straight for the main cast, meaning Johnny and the rest of the A-team. Brian stopped her and grabbed a glass of wine, suddenly thirstier than a dog in the desert. The girl seemed unhappy with him, but whatever; he just waved her off and brought the glass to his mouth and tipped his head back, gulping nervously, chugging it. The alcohol helped soothe his nerves, frayed and frizzled as they were, and he found that he could talk to people more easily, surprised to find that many of them were familiar with his roles in series such as Salem and Sons of Anarchy. That made him relax, being able to talk to professionals about his work, and alright, they looked at him like he was nuts after what had happened outside, but that was hardly something new. Being who he was, he was used to being gawked at, and while he didn’t enjoy it much, he didn’t allow it to bother him either.

 _I’m thick-skinned_ , he decided. Yet he hadn’t ever been convinced that Johnny was.

Johnny, who had walked out on him. Johnny, who hadn’t had the balls to be there. And Johnny, who’d just kissed him in front of everyone.

 _… Has he changed?_ he thought, and daring to sneak a peek, he caught sight of Johnny standing next to Orlando, both men smiling politely as they made conversation. Orlando caught him in the act, their eyes locking for an uncomfortable split second, and then Brian let go, walking to the back of the room to locate the waitress with the drinks. If he were to survive this tiresome ordeal, he’d need some alcohol in his veins.

 _At least_ , he said to himself, hungrily eying the glass of wine he’d taken for himself, _everyone will just assume it was a PR stunt and not an actual… kiss._

“Marilyn,” Johnny said, dragging him out of his thoughts, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

He grunted. “What do you think.”

“You are at the very least enjoying your third glass of wine.”

“Think I’m entitled to a few glasses tonight.”

Johnny patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much, old champ,” he said, grinning.

“Says you,” the rockstar hissed into his glass.

“Says I,” he agreed. “Now, I believe the movie’s about to start.”

“About bloody time,” the raven-haired man said, letting out a breath of relief. He’d been in the spotlight far too long for one evening and didn’t feel like chitchatting about who’s getting unmarried to whom, who’s getting married to whom and who’s happy and who’s unhappy. He was, in fact, surprised that no one had mentioned Johnny’s divorce, but the whole affair had been clear-cut and tidy and the media, when unable to milk the story for anything but a few lazy clicks and ridiculously exaggerated headlines, had grown bored within two weeks.

For the rest of the night, as they sat next to one another in the movie theatre, the raven-haired man was unusually quiet. And for the rest of the night, they kept staring at one another, smiling but not quite smiling, and words, those important words of recognition, escaped them. Had someone asked Brian what the movie had been about, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. He remembered seeing Jack Sparrow as a young man, though he hadn’t really looked like himself the way he had back in the 90s. Most of the time, however, he’d been busy ogling the real deal.

A couple of hours later, as they parted ways in the limo, they mumbled, “Bye, talk to you later,” and nothing more. And when they went to bed in each their mansion, they could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling, asking themselves what the fuck had happened.

Lily White appeared next to him on the bed, purring and meowing like she wanted to talk.

“… He kissed me,” he stated. “Just kissed me.”

Meow, she said.

“I know,” he answered, though he wasn’t sure what he knew, if anything. And then, by the grace of some deity that probably didn’t exist, he fell asleep.


	9. ‘Strangeness Is a Necessary Ingredient in Beauty’

January 22, 2017

Los Angeles, California

_His Marilyn sat outside the beach house, his hair long and body thin. His eyes were mournful as they took in the marvelous sight of the ocean, of the blue waves that crashed against the shore and the white foam that stuck to the rocks. Somewhere in the distance, they saw a ship, a couple of seagulls and an orange sky. Night was on its way, bringing with it a cool breeze that caressed their skin, seeping through the fabric of their clothes. Brian’s hair caught in the breeze and flew across his face, but he didn’t sleek back his dark mane, he merely stared at the darkening canvas of the sky, lost in thought. Johnny ached to touch him, ached to put an arm around him and kiss him. It would have been wildly inappropriate. They weren’t an item. They were friends enjoying each other’s company out on the deck. As it were, they were sitting next to one another on the steps, their bodies nearly touching but not quite, a small gap between them. He could still feel the heat radiating off his body though. If he just moved an inch, their thighs would press together, and it would’ve been so easy to pull him into his arms and press his lips to his mouth._

_“It’s lovely out here,” he commented instead, still not able to tear his gaze away from the younger man whose face seemed so wistful, consumed by memories, perhaps._

_“Is it?”_

_Johnny laughed softly. “Of course. Look at the sky-”_

_“I wasn’t good enough,” his Marilyn said in a detached tone, cutting him short. “Wasn’t ever good enough.”_

_“… You are,” he assured him. “You’ve always been.”_

_His Marilyn drew his lower lip between his teeth and let out a deep breath, a sigh of sorts, and then he turned to look at him, his dark eyes full of doubt and grief, a sight that chilled him to the bone._

_“You left me, Depp.”_

_Johnny stiffened at the comment. He glanced down at his hands, surprised to find that they weren’t his hands. They were old man’s hands, lined and leathery. The words ‘WILL RUST’ were tattooed on his knuckles. He drew in a sharp breath, realizing with sudden unease that something wasn’t right._

_“I had to,” he whispered hoarsely. Then his skin started prickling uncomfortably. The letter ‘I’ started moving, coiling itself into an ‘U’. The letter ‘L’ twisted into ‘S’. Suddenly the tattoo spelled out ‘WUSS’._

_“No.” Brian willed a sad, sad smile to his lips. “I would’ve gone with you.”  
_

_“Gone with me?”_

_“To France.” Brian shrugged. “Or anywhere else.”_

_“… But don’t you see, love? I wasn’t good enough for you…”_

_As he said this, a loud ringing sounded from the distance. His eyes flew to the horizon and saw the sky turning red, the color seeping down the horizon like blood dripping from a deep cut. The sun turned black. It was an evil eye staring down at him, and he heard the voices of demons crying out for him, crying out, “Johnny boy! Johnny boy!” while laughing menacingly, on the hunt for him._

_“I wasn’t good enough…”_

_“Maril-”_

_“I wasn’t! Wasn’t!” the voice, now unrecognizable, screamed. Looking over at his friend, he saw that his bones began transforming, limbs shortening down, sharp edges softening into womanly curves. The black hair fell like autumn leaves. Out sprouted locks of blonde. Brown eyes turned blue. A shrill, high-pitched voice said, “You left me, Depp.” The clothes started decaying, rotting until they crumbled and disappeared. A pregnant belly jutted out from the abdomen, and when he reached out to touch the round form, his hand, now his own, reached inside the womb, the feeling sticky and warm, reminding him of the farm when he’d reached inside a cow to feel the unborn calf._

_“Feel me, Johnny!” the creature shrieked, arching into his touch._

_“No!” he screamed, retracting his hand as if he’d been burned. The stomach split open. Reddish water poured from the wound, and out crawled a myriad of worms and spiders. The woman inserted a hand and started fingering the wound, moaning and crying out his name, “Johnny, Johnny, oh, yes, yes!” until she orgasmed. And out of the belly jumped two devils with red horns, blood and puss coating their skin. Both of them whispered, “Papa,” and clung to him, biting down on his flesh with razor-sharp teeth._

_The sound of a door slamming into the wall interrupted them. He turned around and saw Lily-Rose standing in the doorway, her form appearing angelic, so pure and white like the moon at night._

_“Dad!” she yelled, her voice bubbling with excitement. It took him a moment to realize that she was holding back laughter._

_“Li-”_

As his daughter shook him awake, saying, “Dad, it’s nearly nine a.m.,” he stirred, his eyes blinking open. The world seemed to be spinning. His mouth felt dry, like he’d been snoring, and Lily-Rose, bless her heart, smiled down at him, saying, “Dad, you really must wake up now.” He groaned, his limbs heavy with sleep and his brain filled with fog, making it hard to think. A bad feeling lingered in his guts after the nightmare though, which he could still recall in detail, nearly shuddering at the demonic creature that had shrieked his name. 

“… Morning,” he said, and his voice broke, making him flinch. “Gods, I need a cigarette,” he mumbled, and Lily-Rose, who was still smiling rather widely for nine a.m., handed him a cup of steaming hot coffee.

“This will do the trick,” she promised him.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, arching a brow at her. She couldn’t keep a straight face and immediately started giggling, unable to constrain herself any longer.

Johnny wrinkled his forehead, his brain too slow to connect the dots. 

“What’s so funny, sweet pea?”

“You’ve – you’ve got to – oh, my goodness,” she said, struggling to speak. She was laughing hard, wheezing out words like an old bulldog. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she dried them away with the back of her hand, still laughing. “Oh, y-you, what did you – you do!” she exclaimed in between laughs. These turned into distinctly unladylike guffaws as she clutched her stomach, trying her best not to double over. Johnny decided not to say anything until she’d regained her posture, but the puzzled look on his face just drew more laughs from her.

“Oh – oh, my! You don’t even know!»

Johnny’s frown deepened.

“What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Y-you just,” she started, but then she gave up on speaking, still laughing.

“… The TV,” she nearly gasped after she’d calmed down a bit, her smile turning strangely smug, like she was on to something.

“Yes, go on?”

“You must see it for yourself, Dad.”

He took a sip of his coffee and burned his tongue. Grimacing, he said, “Give me a minute, will you?”

“No.” She grinned. “Come on.”

Again, he groaned, so tired he probably could’ve spent all day in bed. “Alright, but allow me to get dressed, at the very least.” She nodded, satisfied with his response, and swiftly disappeared out the door. Johnny sighed, detangling himself from the sheets before stumbling out of the bed, nearly falling flat on his face. After the nightmare, he was drenched in sweat and felt disorientated, dizzy almost, and he reasoned that he was probably dehydrated. He’d overslept, and he’d only had alcohol before going to bed. Not so clever, no.

He headed toward the bathroom and almost jumped at the sight of his disheveled appearance. Leaning over the sink, he washed the sleep from his eyes and the sweat from his skin, as well as what was left of the dream. Then he glanced up again, meeting his own reflection in the mirror. When he saw that he had red lipstick on his lower lip, an almost invisible splotch of it, his eyes widened and memories from yesterday flooded his mind, making him groan, his fingers clutching at the sides of the sink.

“Oh,” he whispered dumbly to himself. “Oh!”

_Marilyn. I kissed-_

“Da-ad!” Lily-Rose called out from the bedroom. She was _still_ laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop herself, and that wasn’t like her. Now that she was a gloomy teenager, it took a lot to make her crack a smile, at least when she wasn’t around her friends. And he knew why she was in hysterics. He felt like slapping himself across the face. Instead, he blushed – and smiled, feeling helpless. And sure, it was embarrassing to be caught in a compromising position with Marilyn by none other than his darling daughter, but it also made him ridiculously happy.

“Coming,” he said, pulling on a pair of jeans he’d left in the laundry hamper. It reeked of sweat and obviously hadn’t been washed, but he wasn’t about to waltz back inside the bedroom in his underwear. When he exited the door, Lily-Rose grinned up at him, telling him to, “Hurry up!” before dragging him along to the living room. The TV was still on. Some news reporter was talking about the premiere – this particular story was probably being broadcasted every five minutes now – and he saw Orlando and Javier posing with their significant others, both men beaming at the cameras. The news reporter, a man in his 30s, smiled and said something generic about the movie. Then he heard, “Johnny Depp brought his longtime friend, shock rocker Marilyn Manson, to the premiere. The men appeared to be _very close_ , as can be seen in the following clip…”

Lily-Rose slapped her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing too hard. The clip showed Marilyn taking long, quick strides toward the entrance. Johnny himself was staring at him, looking lost, and then he called out for the musician by name. Brian went stiff, looking like your stereotypical deer in the headlights.

“Oh-oh, D-Dad,” she squeezed out, laughing.

“I…”

Johnny felt too warm all of a sudden, heat rising to his face, coloring his cheeks not pink but red. He bit down on his lower lip, knowing what was about to happen. The shock rocker did indeed appear to be in a state of shock, looking at Johnny like he’d lost his grip on reality. When he saw himself kissing Marilyn’s hand, his daughter began laughing even harder, sounding like a complete mental case. The singer looked absolutely mind-blown, like he’d just witnessed an alien attack on planet earth. He couldn’t hear what they were saying – they’d been talking in hushed tones after all – but Marilyn suddenly looked like he wanted to strangle him, his face murderous.

“… And now, for the grand finale,” the teenager said, clapping her hands. The moment he pulled Marilyn into his arms and kissed him, on his tiptoes, the crowd went eerily quiet before exploding, screaming, laughing and whistling at the odd couple.

 _Oh, my lord,_ he thought, wanting to sink through the floor. _Poor, poor Marilyn…_

The look on the singer’s face was, however, priceless. He appeared to be torn between confusion, disgust and anger, almost like he wanted to push him away and ask, ‘Are you fucking stupid, Depp?’ and the only reason he hadn’t was that they had an audience, and not just any audience, no… the whole goddamn world. Johnny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and for a moment, he felt like someone had poured ice water down his back.

“Dad,” she said, now relatively calm. “What the effing hell did you do?”

“… Whether it was a PR stunt, an April’s Fool’s joke or genuine affection, we do not know,” the news reporter said, and, like his daughter, he was struggling not to laugh, his body nearly convulsing as he sat there with a relatively straight face.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, giggling.

“Here at TMZ, we do however offer our sincerest congratulations to Johnny Depp and Marilyn Manson… Love is a wonderful thing, a-and it - it…” Toward the end of that sentence, the man was in stiches. Johnny muttered something unintelligible under his breath, most likely a very foul word, and switched the TV off, having seen more than he’d ever wanted to see. He had, of course, intended for the gesture to be greatly romantic, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. No, it seemed like cheap comedy and no one believed him to be in love, especially not Marilyn, who was most likely thinking he’d been pranked. Johnny’s face fell the slightest bit. He’d probably butchered their relationship by doing this.

 _I’m an idiot,_ he scolded himself, running a hand through his hair. _A no-good piece of shit._

“Dad,” she repeated softly when she realized he wasn’t too humored by the situation. “Look, I know that must’ve hurt a bit, but…” She bit down on her lip, looking like she’d changed her mind. “Oh, for the love of,” she began, her eyes questioning, “what even was that?”

He swallowed thickly, his cheeks bright red with embarrassment and anger alike.

_Yes, indeed. What even was that?_

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, sweet pea.”

Her eyebrows flew up to her hairline. She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Dad, after doing _that_ in public, I think you must discuss it with me. Everyone will be asking me about it, after all. Didn’t you think about that?”

He suppressed the urge to bury his face in his hands and looked down at his feet, seriously asking himself whether or not he was completely retarded. In his mind, the kiss would be romantic and everyone would understand that they were a thing, but they didn’t, not at all, and it had become a cruel joke. Marilyn wasn’t fond of unnecessary drama, seeing as his life was mostly a string of dramatic events, and he most certainly didn’t like being ridiculed by the press, not like this. Not for something so childish. 

“… Do you suppose he hates me now?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He knows you to be impulsive; he won’t have your head for it. But it was, for the lack of a better word,” she began, her eyes gleaming with mirth, “quite a silly thing to do.”

“It was,” he agreed, letting out a sigh.

“Were you trying to be romantic or something?”

He stared dumbly at her until she said, more gently, “I don’t think he fancies surprises and grand gestures as much as most women.” Then she put her hand on his arm, feeling sorry for her old man and his wild romantic notions. Marilyn wasn’t a hopeless romantic – he was a typical man like that – and the whole lovey-dovey thing made him uncomfortable, not flattered.

“Yeah, I know that. I just thought he deserved a grand gesture, you know?”

“You should visit him,” she suggested.

“I-”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

It was Lily-Rose’s phone. She glanced down at the screen, and as soon as she’d read the caller ID, her smile went away. She glanced up at him, mouthing something he didn’t understand, and then answered in French, and Johnny, who still wasn’t fluent in French, only caught bits and pieces. The words, “Don’t shout,” made him flinch though, and he stared at her expectantly, aware that it was Vanessa and aware the news had probably reached the shores of France. Well, to be fair, the news had probably reached every inch of the planet and every last idiot on it. 

“… She wants to talk to you,” Lily-Rose said, and it didn’t surprise him.

“Alright.”

He took the pink iPhone from her and drew in a sharp breath, aware that she was probably enraged, ready to tear him apart limb from limb and put his severed head on a pole just to get her point across. Figuratively speaking, of course.

“Vanessa, I-”

“What are you doing!?” she screamed.

“I’m-”

“You are embarrassing your children, that is what!”

“… Seeing as you only just answered your own question, are you sure you want to talk to me?”

“I cannot comprehend your stupidity, Johnny,” she hissed, sounding every bit like the feral cat he sometimes thought she was. “Jack is very confused – he’s asking me about this, about what he saw on the internet this morning!” Johnny felt a twinge of embarrassment imagining what his son had seen – and read. Journalists weren’t the most honest people around, after all, and dreadful comments would be made about them, no doubt about it. But his son was, just like the rest of their small family, immune to such spiteful rumors. Vanessa just wanted him to suffer for being in love with someone she deemed inappropriate, and she’d been jealous of Marilyn from the start, so it was just her being a bitch.

“You’re underestimating our son,” he told her. “He’s a clever boy.”

“That’s hardly the point! If you must… if you must _breed_ with that _thing_ , at least do so in private!”

“What I do, especially as far as relationships go, is none of your business,” he answered, too shocked by what he’d just seen on the screen to really lose his shit and yell at her. He knew that he shouldn’t let anyone refer to his beloved by such a foul name, a ‘thing’, but what could he really say? Why should he, a grown man, have to defend his choices like that? She’d kicked him to the curb, she’d ended their relationship and she’d found a new lover. That meant she had no right to cuss him out. He wasn’t her property anymore.

“Everything that might hurt our children is most definitely my business.”

“They’re both old enough to understand,” he said quietly. “You’ve already had a new boyfriend for a while.”

“What, that thing is your boyfriend?”

“None of your business,” he repeated dryly. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but please, leave me alone and busy yourself with your own life. It will make us both much happier.”

He was about to end the call when Lily-Rose said, “Let me talk to her,” and snatched the phone from his hand.

“… Mama,” the teenager said while staring at her father. “Dad has the right to live his life in peace, and I know he loves Manson – no, no, don’t interrupt, it is rude.” She rolled her eyes, making Johnny’s lips curve into a somewhat smug smile. “Is it not great if he can find happiness with him? Because for as long as I can remember, he hasn’t been happy, not with you and not when single. So I will be very happy for him, Mama, and I hope, for tranquility’s sake, that you can at least respect his decision, if not be happy for him as I am.”

Before her mother could respond, she hung up on her and sat down on the couch, hugging her petite legs to her chest, looking small and fragile, almost like the little girl with the pigtails who’d been so quiet throughout the fights and disagreements. The feeling of victory immediately evaporated from his chest, and the grief that replaced it hit him like a bullet in the chest. He often forgot how young she was, but now, as she sat there with tears rolling down her cheeks, it was painfully clear that she was still young, too young, and he hated how Vanessa always tried turning them against him, hurting them both badly in the process.

“Are you alright, sweet pea?” he asked, voice low.

She looked away for a second, conflicted. He knew how much she hated crying in front of him.

“You can always talk to me.”

“No…”

“You know you can.”

Their eyes met briefly before she looked over to the window, wanting to hide her sadness. It was, however, impossible for the man who’d watched her grow up to miss. The way she swallowed to avoid tears gave her away, and then he heard her sniffle, quickly drying away an unseen tear with the back of her hand.

“… I remember when I was little,” she began to say, her head spinning. Her morning had been… eventful, and not all of it good. Seeing your father deliver a clumsy, awkward kiss on the red carpet was one thing, (and quite amusing), but scolding your own mother for being childish? That was something else. Disappointing, really. But the more she thought about it, the more the missing pieces of the puzzle came together inside her head. All the unhappiness she’d endured in her childhood came from the same place of malevolent jealousy that had kept her father from experiencing true love, and it was undeserved.

“Yes, sweet pea?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recall the incident. 

“We went to Uncle Manson’s house,” she began, voice trembling, “to celebrate his birthday. I remember Mama crying when she took me away, crying because you, well, you were staring at Uncle Manson, I think – at least I think so now. I remember this ridiculously beautiful woman with porcelain skin… They got engaged, right? And I remember you being terribly sad – and I think, even then, I knew something was wrong.”

“Clever girl,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to be with him,” she apologized, averting her eyes. “I feel like it is my fault somehow. Like, if I hadn’t been born-”

“Hey, never say that. Nothing’s further from the truth.”

“But… it is my fault.”

“No. You mustn’t ever blame yourself, and besides, the fault is entirely mine,” he assured her, taking her hand in his, squeezing it. “I was so scared, and… I made a mess of things. The truth is that I was… I acted the part of a coward, and how is that your fault? You and Jack have blessed my life. I never want to hear you blaming yourself for my mistakes, alright?”

She smiled bleakly, choosing to ignore the declaration of love.

“Go see him,” she said instead, her eyes lifting. “He must be scared right now.”

“Scared?”

She nodded.

“You told me once that Uncle Manson is a very shy, very private person because he’s always been antagonized and scapegoated by everyone – but maybe the media in particular, and I don’t know if he interprets this as a joke on your part or, well, you being into him, but I suspect he’s feeling scared nonetheless, scared of losing you or scared of a public backlash.” She paused, their eyes meeting.

“Of losing me?” he echoed, sounding unsure.

“With you being who you are, could you blame him?”

“… No.”

“Go buy him a croissant and a cup of coffee,” she encouraged him, smiling wryly at her own suggestion. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact she saw through him as if he were transparent? She apparently knew more about dealing with his relationship problems than he did, but then again, he’d often just let Vanessa boss him around and apart from that, he’d been very young the last time he’d been with someone else, excluding his fling with Marilyn. She was good at seeing things he couldn’t, perhaps a masculine defect of his. Reading others, and especially Marilyn, just wasn’t his strongest suit. Sure, he knew how to cheer people up, but Marilyn probably didn’t want that right now, if ever. He was hardly the cheeriest bloke around. 

“A tasty treat and a cup of coffee can fix anything,” she continued on wisely. “Oh, and do let him know that you love him – otherwise, how can he know you’re not simply being clever? It was April one, after all, and, well, you must’ve embarrassed him! Did you see how shocked he looked?”

Again, she erupted into laughter. Johnny breathed, “Mm,” and let out a stale chuckle, not quite as amused.

“You should leave right away, Dad.”

“Alright, alright,” the brunet said, nearly groaning. “And, for the sake of my pride, let’s never discuss this again.”

She beamed up at him. “As long as you don’t make a mess of it all again.”

 _I better not,_ he thought to himself. _He wouldn’t ever forgive me. Not now._

* * *

He woke up with a scream lodged in his throat, his forehead shiny with cold sweat and his breath coming out in harsh, uneven gasps. As he came to, he realized it’d been a bad dream. He’d been falling. From the top of the cliff, Johnny had looked down at him, a wry smile tugging at his red lips, red from the death kiss he’d only just pressed to Brian’s mouth. Gasping at the memory, he rolled over on his side and heard Lily White hiss, her claws digging into his flesh like barbed wire. The scream tore free from his chest then, loud and clear. 

“Ouch!”

He shifted on the bed, grabbed the poor feline and held her by the neck. She was wide-eyed, terrified, and the singer said, “That hurt like a bitch, you know!”

“Meow,” she said, and he thought she seemed sad, like she’d been startled awake and had tried defending herself from the huge barrel of a body that had rolled on top of her, assuming she’d been attacked by a monster, or quite possibly the neighbor’s Great Dane, Homer.

“… Sorry,” he offered as an apology, letting go of her. She jumped off the bed, though slowly as she was stiff from a remarkably long cat life, and scurried over to a chair by the door. She hid under it, and from her hiding place, she glared at him like he was the mentioned dog and not her beloved Dad. Even from a distance, he saw that a few drops of blood had soiled her white fur. She started licking her paw clean. Seeing this, he briefly wondered if his taste was as putrid as the rest of him, but she didn’t instantly die from food poisoning so he assumed it was fine.

“… There’s probably some food waiting for you downstairs, sweetheart,” he said, and her ears pricked up at the word ‘food’, which she understood as well as he understood the word ‘absinthe’. She disappeared out the door and probably wandered down to the kitchen, waiting for Mrs. Martín, the housekeeper, to find a can of exclusive tuna that, according to his fitness instructor, he should eat at least three times a week. But he didn’t like tuna and had gifted her with the gunk, seeing as she purred like a vibrator whenever he opened a can.

“… Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What a night.”

He slowly got up from the bed, his muscles aching.

 _Yesterday_ , he thought suddenly, staring out the window, seeing nothing put pale blue skies and a yellow egg yolk non-vampire referred to as the sun.

 _So, yesterday happened._ He licked his lips, running his hands down his thighs. _Fuck. That can’t be good._

Brian got up and walked over to the pile of clothes he’d left on the floor, not bothering with the hanger. He reached inside the pocket of his vest and found that yes, he’d left his iPhone there. The next thing he registered was that he had 159 missed calls, 237 texts and a shitload of e-mails that, if he were to be frank, he wouldn’t even open. Still, he should probably call Tony to get a ‘brief’ overview of the situation. After so many years of working together, Tony knew what being Marilyn Manson implied. Scandals awaited them at every goddamn street corner. Ticking bombs, really. And more often than not, he knew how to handle all the shit that came their way.

He quickly dialed the number.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

“… Manson,” Tony said, and his tone walked the line between relief and annoyance, like a parent whose errant child hadn’t been answering his phone all night.

“Yeah, hey,” the singer said, wondering if he should’ve Googled himself before making this call. “You’ve been texting me-”

“Good of you notice,” he said dryly, interrupting him mid-sentence. “And good of you to call. We should try to make a habit of it, old boy.”

“You know why I called.”

“Yes, yes,” Tony responded. “A heads-up would’ve worked like a charm, you know. It’s been chaotic the last twelve hours, as you’d know, and at first, I knew even less than everyone else and couldn’t answer a damn question. I nearly threw my phone out of the window before going to sleep. So yeah, next time you want to do something equally foolhardy, not to mention childish, please give me a heads-up beforehand.”

“… A heads-up,” the singer repeated slowly. “Yeah, you know what, I would’ve liked a heads-up myself.”

His manager fell silent, thoughts churning this new glut of information, and in the background, Brian heard the sound of a child laughing, then rustling and Tony telling his wife, Ava, ‘I’ve got to talk in private,’ and a door was being opened and then closed.

“… Hello?” he asked tiredly. “Tony?”

“So, wonder boy pranked you?”

“… Wonder boy caught me by surprise.”

“I can imagine,” the younger man said, chuckling as he thought about the awkward kiss that’d exploded on the Internet. Johnny standing on his tiptoes to give him a big smooch. “You looked like you’d swallowed a damn lemon, ha-ha! Have you looked it up yet? This photo, this, uh, um…” He started laughing, almost gasping, and for a second, Brian considered hanging up.

“… this _flattering_ photo,” he finally said, meaning, of course, that it was very _un_ flattering, “is going viral. It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, Manson.”

The singer pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. The humiliation would never end, would it?

“At least my love life is amusing to some,” he said in a voice that bled with self-pity and disgust, two emotions he’d become well acquainted with lately. “It only ever gives me a major migraine.”

“Hey, hold on, hold on,” the younger man said in disbelief. “ _Love life_?”

“… Crap,” the raven-haired man muttered, his cheeks turning pink. “I, no, I shouldn’t have fucking said that.”

 _My big fucking mouth_ , he thought and glanced longingly out the window, feeling trapped.

The other man coughed awkwardly. 

“Is this… is there something I should know?”

The rockstar ground his jaw, cursing himself for his lack of discretion.

“… Manson?”

“No,” he said with finality. “Nothing.”

“But-”

“We’ll talk again later,” the singer said quickly, too quickly, and he knew he’d betrayed himself, but perhaps there was this underlying need to tell someone about this, about yesterday, about the studio, the breakup, the heartache and everything in between. Still, Tony wasn’t the right person to talk to, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that no one was.

No one still alive, that is.

 _… Mom,_ he thought, her beautiful face flashing before his mind’s eye, and somewhere under all the grief, he heard her say, ‘You can handle this,’ with such faith in him. Not that this was the greatest catastrophe to have ever occurred in his life. He had a couple of trials under his belt, not to mention Columbine and a plethora of other ungrounded accusations made by Christian fanatics. But on a personal level, yes, this sucked.

 _Wish you were here, Mom._ He blinked. _Wish I could’ve talked to you._

“… Manson,” Tony began tentatively, but then, as the words caught in his throat, he stopped. He feared the singer’s temper, his sensitivity, and he wasn’t about to step on his toes when he was already stressed out; that could only end in a way that didn’t benefit anyone. So, instead of going there, he asked, “Wasn’t it just a prank?”

Brian gave an unamused chuckle.

“Let’s say it was a prank.”

“I considered that perhaps it was a PR stunt – something I’m sure Johnny’s people would be against – but with regards to the music video, it made perfect sense to me…” He trailed off, suddenly feeling guilty that he wasn’t addressing the pink fucking elephant in the room. His client sounded off, his _friend_ , and he couldn’t just avoid it because it felt more convenient to do so. The reason was, of course, Brian’s famously short fuse.

“But… it wasn’t a prank?” he asked searchingly.

“For the sake of my sanity, we’ll say it was a goddamn prank.”

“… Fuck, Manson, are you and Johnny-”

“ _Please_ ,” the singer said, cutting him short. “Don’t talk to the media about this, be it sleazy gossip magazines or anyone else. I-I…” He paused, rubbing his chin with his free hand. “I don’t really want to deal with it – or feed the rumors, for the matter.”

“… Manson, I wouldn’t dream of getting myself tangled up in whatever this is,” Tony said, still sounding incredulous. He didn’t buy that it was a prank and wanted to help him out, but knowing Manson, he wouldn’t want help.

“It’s a mess, that’s what it is,” the singer said, and he cursed himself for how weak he sounded, his voice breaking, crumbling, making him sound as though he were crying.

“I, well,” his manager said, clearing his throat nervously. “You’re worrying me. You sound… unhappy.”

He rolled his eyes. ‘Unhappy’ didn’t even begin to explain how he felt.

“I am fucking unhappy,” he spat, wanting to claw someone’s eyes out. “Twigs is nearly dead; my mother _is_ dead, and everyone’s poking fun at me – and it’s all on Johnny! But I’ve got to take the bullet again, right? Just what I needed, another scandal to spice up my dull existence.”

“… Manson-”

“Fuck off.”

“Call me when you’ve cooled d-”

He hung up on him. Then, the moment he stood with the phone in his hand and no one to talk to, he felt bad about it. Tony hadn’t done anything to harm him, after all, but with all that pent-up rage rushing through his veins, he was bound to lash out. For that reason, he locked the phone in the safe that was concealed behind a painting in the study and walked up to the bathroom, in dire need of a shower. And some peace and quiet.

_… If my thoughts could ever shut up, at least._

_Is Johnny coming over for another surprise visit?_

_He better not. The fucker._

Once inside the spacious room with the black marble tiles and the Victorian tub, he sat down on the toilet lid and stayed that way, with his head in his hands and his shoulders slumped. He felt dizzy, and the tenseness in his muscles made him feel like a mannequin, not a proper person made from flesh and bone. Scenes from yesterday kept popping up, slicing through his mind. And the thing he hated the most was that he hadn’t pushed the fucker away – he wouldn’t – and if he hadn’t kissed him in front of everyone, he might have kissed him back, might have welcomed it.

… And Johnny, well, he’d never been the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He probably thought he’d helped him out. The kiss must’ve attracted wide publicity in the press. To Johnny, it signified nothing, just a favor, a clever career move, and the same went for the music video. He’d offered himself to him like an eager virgin in the studio because he’d noticed how uncomfortable he’d been, how ashamed, and to Johnny, sex didn’t mean shit. But for once, Brian wasn’t interested in just… sex. He wanted attraction, playfulness, companionship and, well, an end to the loneliness. Having a friendly face to wake up to in the morning seemed more interesting than just a nice body to fuck. But Johnny had to be sick and tired of relationships. Now that he was a bachelor again, he’d sleep around for a while, get his fix, settle down with a twenty-five-year-old slut looking for a career boost, have another kid just to make sure the second wife could inherit his mansion, grow old, get another divorce, sleep around and then die from a pleasant OD at home.

Maybe he’d been stupid to turn him down though? He hadn’t had a good, satisfying fuck in ages. Hell, he’d even been neglected by his own hand lately. He’d been so disgusted with himself for such a long time, every glance in the mirror had caused his confidence – and his dick – to shrivel up like a raisin. Sex had been out of the question.

Sighing, he got up and started pulling down his pajama pants and underwear. When all his clothes lay discarded on the floor beside the toilet, he turned on the water and waited until it was warm. He’d stopped looking in the mirror a long time ago and didn’t pause to catch a glimpse of himself, he just hurriedly went inside the glass cubicle and closed the door. As the water rained down on him from the showerhead, he groaned, relishing the warmth, washing away all remnants of sticky, foul-smelling sweat. All remnants of that dream, of the death kiss and the sensation of falling.

In his previous home, they’d spent some time in the shower, he remembered, and it was a strange thing to remember, seeing as he often pushed these things to the back of his mind, into cardboard boxes that were taped shut, and it startled him, the memories that came back. Fucking in the shower. Fucking Johnny up against the wall. Fucking him in the tub. Well, the latter hadn’t worked out too well. They’d nearly flooded the bathroom, water splashing everywhere, and the housekeeper had freaked out, yelling at them that, ‘water damage is irreversible,’ and, ‘Aunt Gloria lost her house due to water damage,’ or something equally stupid. He could afford a new house, after all. Johnny, always the carefree spirit, had waltzed around in his birthday suit as she’d been running around with rags and buckets, unashamed, and she’d been red as a tomato. Brian had been even more embarrassed than her, having pushed Johnny out the door while trying to tie a towel around his waist.

 _What’s that on your face, Brian?_ he mocked himself. _A smile?_

He was smiling, actually. Those days had been phenomenal, always filled with laughter and glee.

He remembered waking up to Johnny staring at him. No one else had ever looked as flawless in the early morning hours as Johnny, and the way he’d grinned when Brian woke up, grumbling like a thunderstorm, had been everything. Then he’d ask, ‘Do you feel lucky this morning, my sweetest Marilyn?’

‘… Maybe.’

‘I happen to know,’ Johnny’d say, his hand sliding down his bare abdomen, down toward his crotch, ‘that you are very lucky this morning.’

The thought sent ripples of excitement through his body, all of them landing in his groin, and his skin seemed to catch fire, his every cell screaming for the actor. In his mind, he pictured Johnny’s smooth, delicate hand locking around him, and he could feel his dick hardening, rising, begging to be touched. All he had available was his own hand, a poor consolation when all he could think of was Johnny, Johnny and then some more Johnny. It was like a spell, a bewitching charm that made him obsessively fetishize his old flame – his friend. Sucking in a lungful of air, he closed his eyes and let his imagination roam free, exploring the forbidden. He saw Johnny kneeling before him on the tiled floor, water trickling down his face, his hair wet and clinging to his skin. His eyes were dark and so full of want, of desire, and it was funny, he’d think, at least had it been real, that the only person who’d ever looked at him like that was Johnny fucking Depp.

Brian bit down on his lip, and his hand slipped down to his nest of black curls, then further down, his fingers brushing against his burning hot flesh. He was only half hard, not fully able to let go of the guilt, the self-reproach, that came with these misguided feelings, these bittersweet feelings. But no one would ever know what he did in the privacy of his own shower, would they, now?

 _No_ , he decided. _And I wasn’t ever afraid of a little sinful me-time._

Reaching down to fondle himself, he recalled details of their affair. They’d shared some steamy encounters, that’s for sure, and yet he found himself going back to the very beginning of their relationship. He had a full hard-on at that point. Groaning, he gripped his dick by the base and jerked it slowly, moving his hand up and down, mimicking Johnny’s movements.

‘Oh, look, someone wants to play,’ Johnny’d say, his voice husky and low. ‘So ready for me, aren’t you, love?’

‘Mm, always.’

He remembered the warmth of his mouth. At first, the blowjobs had been clumsy, butterfingered almost, but Johnny’d been determined. There was something charming about that, something innocent and pure, and while he didn’t at all glorify virgins, he just thought there’d been something sincere about it, about eagerly trying to please another man while feeling self-conscious about the lack of experience. To most ‘straight’ guys, that was a tough pill to swallow, but Johnny’d been brave. The singer remembered those huge brown eyes looking up at him, carefully scanning his face for clues of pleasure – or displeasure, and he’d moaned, something he never did with women. Johnny had loved that, making him moan, and it’d been pure perfection, feeling that tongue swirling around his head, sucking and licking without an ounce of shyness, perfectly aware of what men liked, having often enough been on the receiving end of such activities.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned and gripped his dick tighter, stroking himself harder and faster, imagining the actor’s mouth, his tongue as he licked and teased him, bringing him to that peak, swallowing every last drop with a grin on his face. Moments later, as he imagined that face, that beautiful face, he came with a small cry, his insides clenching and his cum striping white against the black tiles.

“… Fuck,” he breathed. “… Johnny.”

 _Why did you do that?_ He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. _Why…_

“Mr. Manson!” Mrs. Martín knocked on the door like the house was burning down. “Mr. Manson, you have a visitor – I swear, I didn’t show him inside, he _barged_ _in_ like he owns the place-”

“Alright, shut up!” he yelled grumpily and stepped out of the shower, getting a towel. Once it was tied securely around his waist, he walked over to the door and opened it only slightly, seeing her standing there with her arms folded over her large chest, a deep frown marring her otherwise soft, feminine features. As their eyes met, she shivered, and her eyes, almost black in color, darted down to her feet.

“… It is Mr. Depp,” she said, speaking in hushed tones.

“And you let him in?” He rolled his eyes. “Haven’t I told you explicitly that he’s not to come here?”

“But, Mr. Manson, he simply rushed past-”

“Tell him I’ll be downstairs in a minute,” the singer said, letting out an annoyed huff. What, did he need to hire a bodyguard or something? How fucking dramatic wouldn’t that be. And, considering how he’d first met Johnny, it would’ve been humorous. This time, he’d be the one landing ass first on the sidewalk, a large mountain of a man giving him the stink eye while saying, ‘I’m being nice.’

“But, he’s-”

“Are you deaf? Do as I say; I’m not going downstairs in a fucking towel.”

“No need, Marilyn,” he heard the actor say from the doorway. When he saw him waving his hand at him, his eyes gleaming, he blushed crimson.

“Give me a minute,” he grumbled, went straight back inside the bathroom and closed the door with a bang that, in his mind, signified that he wanted to be left alone. When Mrs. Martín knocked not two seconds later and asked, “Shall I make the two of you some lunch?” he growled, wanting to strangle her and Johnny both, and declared, “Mr. Depp isn’t staying,” which was most likely a lie, but he didn’t want her to wait on the man like he lived here. That wasn’t in the job description, was it?

“It’s alright,” he heard Johnny tell the flustered maid. “I brought us some nice pastries; I assure you he’s well looked after.”

 _What am I, ten years old?_ He clenched his fists, wanting to hurl them at someone and beat them to a pulp, but that almost always resulted in a lot of unresolved sexual tension, at least when a certain Mr. Depp was involved, so he supposed he’d have to cool down and try not to lose his temper, which was easier said than done when red hot magma boiled in his veins.

 _… You’re alright,_ he told himself. _You can handle this._

Then yesterday came back to him, the kiss and the awkwardness, and he felt like he was blushing from head to toe, so uncomfortable in his own skin. And, well, Johnny was probably here to talk about it, and they were so fucking great at communicating their feelings, weren’t they?

_Waste of time and energy._

_Fuck this…_

_I should just leave LA, go to Germany or something. Auschwitz maybe, but fuck no, that’s in Poland, another Catholic hellhole…_

He remembered the stripe of cum in the shower and, considering the Catholic cunt who was supposed to clean up after him, stepped inside and washed it away with a sponge. Mrs. Martín was funny like that. He’d once invited her inside his walk-in closet – the one that was brimming over with old stage clothes – and she’d become stiff with fear and horror – and repulsion, probably – as he’d told her about the early days, showing her thongs and corsets that, quite frankly, she hadn’t been ready for. The reason he’d showed her around was that her niece, a youngling with too much eyeliner and a haircut that had been all the rage in the early 2000s, was a ‘huge fan’, and she’d wanted a few photos of the mentioned clothing. Her niece had, of course, failed to disclose why his stage clothes were so renowned. After that, Mrs. Martín hadn’t been able to look him in the eye without breaking a sweat.

_Cute, that._

He suddenly faced the challenge of what to wear. Make-up wouldn’t be wise, it took too long when his guest was already downstairs, but he hated having his emotions on display, his skin so quick to change color. With another huff, he walked inside the bedroom and started going through his closet. Just then, he was caught off guard by the door creaking open.

“… Sorry, I couldn’t get myself to wait,” Johnny said almost breathlessly from the doorway. Brian froze. He was still wearing his towel, nothing less, nothing more, and suddenly more than just his feelings were on display, making him shudder.

“I don’t want you in here while I change,” he said, straining to keep his voice level. “Is that so bloody hard to grasp, Depp?”

“No.” A chuckle. “But… nothing I haven’t seen before, Brian.”

“Please, don’t.”

He turned around slowly, seeing Johnny standing there, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his eyes downcast, probably not wanting to embarrass him any more than he already had.

“Did you come here to piss me off even more?”

“Not initially, no.”

“Then what’s the fucking deal?”

“… I, uh.” Johnny swallowed thickly, still avoiding eye contact. “Yesterday.”

The singer said nothing, he just stared at him, resigned.

“What about it?”

Johnny gave him a long look that said, ‘I’m not very impressed with your skills as an actor,’ and right then and there, he wasn’t being a good actor at all, trying to feign ignorance to get out of this mess. 

“… Really, Marilyn,” he said, shaking his head.

The singer fixed him with an icy stare, annoyed.

“Look, I get that you were just taking the piss out of me, April Fool’s Day and all, and I guess it was good publicity or whatever, but please, Johnny…” He almost wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, his nervousness like an electric current going through his limbs, sending painful jolts in every direction. Then he felt that rage nipping at his heart, and his eyes became dark and grim as he declared that, “I don’t want to do this, and to be honest, I’m not in the mood for whatever the fuck it is you have to say to me.” When Johnny didn’t answer, just stared at him, waiting, he continued by saying, “If you’re here to gloat, just get the fuck out of my face, alright? I don’t want you in my house.”

The brunet looked like he’d been slapped by an invisible hand.

“You’re plain wrong, my friend.”

“Wrong,” he echoed, a pained look crossing his face.

“Yes, and you ought to listen-”

“Stop.” Brian drew in a sharp breath. “I-I know you mean well, that you care, that you want to offer me a sympathy fuck or whatever, but, fucking hell, I _know_ what happened between us never meant much to you, but to me… Christ, Johnny. I-I can’t dip into all of that anymore, and I don’t want people talking about us. And more importantly, at least on a personal level, I don’t want you to go on hurting me like this, d’you get that? I’m fed up…”

He cleared his throat, turning back around to rummage through the closet, all his new clothes black and gray and hard to differentiate between.

“Marilyn, please-”

“I can’t take it – and now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to put on some clothes. In peace.”

There was a moment of silence. Brian felt his eyes on him, taking in every inch of naked skin, every inch of imperfection. He closed his eyes, willing him to just go away, but Johnny being Johnny, he wouldn’t ever just go away, wouldn’t ever just listen. No, it was his way or no way.

“Marilyn,” the actor said again, his voice so soft, so reticent Brian almost had the impression he was being addressed by a small child. He ignored him, searching for a gray shirt he’d bought a few days ago, though it’d been washed and Mrs. Martín had a mean habit of putting everything in the wrong drawer. At times, he thought she did it just to piss him off, but with how submissive the old bird was, he didn’t truly believe she’d willingly disobey him. In the end, he gave up, finding a rather plain black T-shirt with an obscure logo spread across the chest, something he’d bought ages ago. 

_Wonder if it fits._

“… Marilyn.”

He completely froze when he felt Johnny’s arms wrapping around him from behind. It was an odd embrace, both awkward and familiar, and his proximity, his touch, made Brian’s head swim. His heart started thumping so hard it fucking hurt, and when Johnny’s mouth pressed hotly against his neck, against sensitive skin, it became too much. He growled, “Get off me, Johnny,” though his voice gave him away instantly, so small it turned into a broken whisper. When he pressed his lips to his neck for a second time, the singer didn’t protest, all words dying in his mouth. Johnny left soft kisses there until the singer became like Jell-O in his arms, no longer resisting the comfort, the closeness he’d needed but never asked for.

“… You’ve got it all wrong, babe,” Johnny assured him, his breath hot against his skin. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at this, at words, but you’ve… you’ve got it all so wrong. I didn’t prank you at all. I tried… ah, I tried being romantic. It should’ve been this grand gesture-”

The singer cut him short, exploding into laughter that made him sound manic, a full-blown ‘HA-HA’ laugh Johnny hadn’t heard before. He laughed so loud his whole frame shook, and he sounded like he was choking himself, not able to speak coherently, just stuttering out, “I-I thi– I-I!” Johnny released him, taking a couple of steps backwards. Brian just stood there facing the closet, staring at the black and gray fabrics and laughing like nothing had ever been funnier. As the last of the laughter died down, he took a deep breath, rubbed his face with his free hand and repeated, “Romantic?” like it was the most offensive word he’d ever heard.

“… Yes.”

“I think you failed, Depp.”

“I know.”

“I don’t _like_ grand romantic gestures.”

“Look at me, Marilyn,”

It was several long seconds before the taller man slowly turned around to face him, and as their eyes locked, Johnny felt afraid. There was a coldness in his eyes that hadn’t really been there before, a coldness that told him he didn’t believe any of this.

“… You think I’m ashamed of you,” Johnny began, his tongue suddenly feeling like a thick and fuzzy animal, making it hard to be particularly articulate. Yes, he certainly could be free-spoken and verbal, at least at social events, but in private? People often misunderstood his intentions, and Brian, so sensitive where he himself was rather thick-skinned, always assumed the worst. Looking at his face, he saw that hurt just simmering below the surface, waiting to catch fire, to explode and self-destruct like a bomb.

“And you think,” he continued, his voice low, “I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, especially where… where romance is concerned. But I can honestly tell you, I was so much more embarrassed to be seen with Vanessa. I felt it was glaringly obvious we weren’t truly an item, you know? And… and I’m sorry you’ve felt discarded, like you weren’t ‘good enough’, but the truth’s that I wasn’t good enough – and it has nothing to do with looks!”

Brian’s face transformed; it seemed to be dripping with disbelief, rage and sadness all at once.

“How come you never left the bitch, then?”

“… I was weak – a bloody coward – but I’ve changed. I have. But please, Marilyn, if you don’t give me a chance, you’ll never know… Look, I’m not saying I deserve another shot at this, but, well, you’ll never know if you don’t let me prove myself.”

The singer let out a contemptuous snort, fastening the towel more securely around his waist.

“Yeah, let you fuck me over yet again.”

“I’d sooner die,” he whispered weakly. “Fuck, Marilyn, I was young and confused and there were two children involved. I thought I did right by them – but Lily-Rose, she’s got this all figured out, you know? And she berates me for not having left her mother. She berates me for it! And a teenager sees what I failed to see… It is beyond humiliating, and the only person who’s embarrassed me is myself, you see? But you’ve… ever since I came back, you’ve been utterly pig-headed, Marilyn. You refuse to give this a chance, and why? You’ve got an inferiority complex? Give it up, I say. You’re lovely and beautiful and mean so much to me, and I just pray you can see that without letting old hatred getting in the way, blinding you.”

“… And I was supposed to understand all that based on a surprise kiss on the red carpet on April 1?”

Johnny pressed his lips together, forming a thin line.

“Depp,” the singer almost sighed, “sometimes I question your IQ.”

“I wanted to show you I’m not embarrassed.”

“You couldn’t have done that in private?”

“Believe me, I’m trying very hard right this second.”

“Well,” the singer said, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “I don’t feel any less embarrassed right now. Why do you always intrude on my privacy, hmm? Barge in like this, step on my toes and make me feel so fucking worthless.”

Johnny’s eyebrows nearly flew up to his hairline.

“How on earth have I made you feel worthless?”

“This…” He made a meaningful gesture at the space between them with his hands, and his eyes shot down to his body, to the ugly purple stretchmarks and the flabbiness of his paunch, to his nakedness. When he again lifted his eyes, Johnny saw that he was biting the soft flesh of his cheek, his body trembling as though cold, but one wasn’t ever cold in California.

“I… fuck, I thought you were mocking me for being out of shape. Like when we were shooting ‘KILL4ME’ and you tried undressing me in front of fucking everyone. It’s all…” He took a deep shuddering breath, struggling to find his words, all of them tucked away and hidden so well, too well, really, and he couldn’t quite find them all. “I… I still don’t get that you can like me, this, and I’m just sorry that I am… so fucking ugly.”

Johnny let out a quiet, “Ah,” sounding sad.

“I haven’t liked myself in forever.”

“Marilyn,” he whispered, feeling hurt by what he’d said. “You’re perfect to me. You’ve got to believe me.”

They stared at one another, but the singer broke it off, feeling overwhelmed.

“I’ve always compared myself to you,” he admitted. “And I know it’s stupid.”

He smiled tightly – it was all he could do to keep the tears from floating – and swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Johnny felt his discomfort then. This was why he didn’t want to be seen naked, something Johnny had just thought of as silly shyness, an everlasting character quirk, and not at all a severe problem. The realization left him with a foul taste in his mouth. He couldn’t allow this. It was foolish.

“… Well, I’m short, I’ve apparently got a low IQ, I’m cowardly.” He smiled thinly, encouragingly, as he said this, clearly not too bothered by his own shortcomings. “And some say I smell quite badly, including Angelina Jolie. Said she wouldn’t come anywhere near my mouth unless I swore off the cigarettes – and brushed my teeth.”

The singer, in spite of his mental anguish, broke into a smile.

“Didn’t the broad force you to take breath mints?”

“Oh, yeah.” Johnny started laughing. “That one has a stick up her ass. Remember when she used to be edgy?”

“Chicks aren’t really edgy,” the rockstar said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe with the exception of Courtney Love, only I’m not really convinced she’s a woman.”

“Your bassist didn’t verify that she’s a she?”

“I’m not sure he knew how to tell the difference, being that fucked up on meth.”

“Fair enough.”

Brian, now calm, stuffed the T-shirt back into the drawer and gave up on the project of finding something to wear, too distracted by the actor’s presence, a presence that always turned out to be challenging, familiar or not, because he unintentionally pushed his every goddamn button and made him turn into a bundle of nerves. He felt like one of those puffer fishes, blowing up like the bad-tempered motherfucker he could be to scare people off, but he hadn’t ever been able to scare Johnny off and should probably just give it a rest. So instead of yelling, spitting venom or throw some kind of tantrum, he sat down on the large bed, on the red bedcover his mother had once bought him, and said nothing. Johnny sat down next to him, and the mattress seemed to dip strategically, rolling him into the larger man’s body so they sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to high, both of them mute and, if one could even say such a thing about middle-aged men, youthfully nervous.

“… I feel like I’ve wasted ten years,” the younger man said, brushing strings of wet hair out of his face and eyes, though it fell back immediately after, his hair stuck in this ‘too long, too short’ hairdo that required some styling gel to stay in place. Johnny, who didn’t much like the greasy feel of such products, ran his hand through his hair, such a gentle caress, and then massaged his temple with his thumb, smiling as he closed his eyes, leaning in ever so slightly. 

“It hasn’t been in vain.”

“If time you enjoy wasting is not time wasted,” the singer said grumpily, “then time you don’t enjoy wasting must be time wasted.”

“Oh, how profound,” Johnny said, smiling.

“It is.”

“Well, we shan’t have to waste any more time,” Johnny said, his smile widening a little. When he retracted his hand, Brian caught it and brought it down to rest on his milky soft thigh, wanting his touch. “Or perhaps I should say” – and Johnny squeezed his thigh lovingly – “that we can now get to waste time in a manner we both enjoy, which is most definitely a precious thing.”

“…. You’re making my head spin,” the singer complained, and what an ambiguous complaint it’d been, Johnny thought, his heart beating faster and his skin prickling with delight.

“You started it, Mr. Philosopher.”

“Are you going to finish it?”

“Ah.” Johnny’s hand inched higher up his exposed thigh. “I see you’ve changed the topic altogether?”

“You said you’d finish what you’d started ‘later’.” He swallowed thickly. “In the dressing room.”

“… Oh, love,” the brunet said, chuckling yet more intrigued than amused, “you only ever have to tell me what it is you need – when, where, how – and I’ll obey like the dog I am.”

When his fingers inched even higher and slipped beneath the hemline of the towel, sliding up toward his dick, he jerked and let out a quiet, “Christ, Depp,” like he still couldn’t believe this to be anything but a, what, a hallucination? Johnny paused, whispering, “Do you want this, doll?” But his sweet, shy Marilyn couldn’t quite respond, he merely blushed, roses blooming on his cheeks, and Johnny smiled knowingly, his heart swelling. It was all familiar, he thought, even if they hadn’t been together like this in ages, and even then, they’d known it was a dirty little secret, not something Johnny’d ever even admit to. It made it all the more real. And this time, he was determined not to ruin it all.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, and he received a death glare in return, one that said, ‘Don’t be sentimental’.

“What?” he asked teasingly. “Are you sure I don’t need a breath mint first?”

The raven-haired man rolled his eyes. Then, as he tried to wrap his head around the situation, which was still somehow stranger than fiction, he shifted on the bed, allowing them to sit face to face. Johnny wasn’t too interested in being perched on the tall bed, however, and climbed into the sheets, pulling at the singer’s arm to get him to follow his lead. Brian said nothing but allowed himself to fall backwards, to the center of the mattress, and the actor grumbled and said, “The towel’s soaking wet, Marilyn,” and tugged at it. Brian lifted his bum, allowing Johnny to drag it out from under him and throw it aside. He wasn’t hard, was still in a state of disbelief and some kind of hesitancy, this fear of rejection still lodged inside his brain, telling him, ‘Just you wait, Brian; he’ll change his mind any second now and humiliate you like never before,’ and he had a hard time ignoring it.

“… My god, you’re so very lovely,” his friend – _lover?_ something, told him, drinking in the sight of him, and the singer felt a wetness in his eyes, his every cell on high alert.

“There’s a shitload of irony to that statement, Depp,” he commented dryly.

“Oh, hush.”

Johnny propped himself up on one arm to look at him, using his free hand to smooth back the stubborn strands of black that had somehow found their way back into his eyes. Without another word said, the air charged and electrified with unvoiced thoughts, he took his face in his hands and brought his mouth down on his. This first kiss was hard and violently hungry, just lips pressing against lips, really, and Brian smelled that citrusy smell – and the cigarettes, of course, and it struck him that none of the little girls he’d been banging lately had been smokers. How he’d managed to miss that scent was beyond him, but he realized now that he had. It was painful, this realization. Missing Johnny had just been a part of his dull everyday life, hadn’t it? And acceptance had crept up on him with age.

“… I love you,” Johnny breathed against his lips. His eyes flew open then, and he frowned deeply, asking, “Why did you have to fucking say that?” in a tone of voice torn between frustration and anger. The older man sighed, equally frustrated. He wasn’t good at communicating his feelings, period.

“I… Marilyn, I have to say it now. Can’t let you think I’m just – just messing with your head.”

Brian went limp in his arms, his face visibly paling.

“… Are you?”

“Gods, no.”

Before the singer could respond, their lips crashed together in a desperate, almost sloppy kiss. Johnny’s tongue darted across his bottom lip, sucking gently, and unlike the previous kiss, it made the singer dizzy, his heart beating furiously like that of a dying bird, hard and fast and so loud in his ears. When his Johnny’s hand slid between his thighs, brushing against his manhood, he let out a small yelp, his body trembling like he was in the throes of hypothermia. Thoroughly embarrassed by his own immature, virginal reaction, he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the look of pity on the older man’s face. But being touched like this, by a hand of a lover who supposedly wanted him and not his name, was terrifying, compellingly so. With the twenty-five-year-old sluts, he normally had to do all the handiwork, rubbing and licking their clits, entering and exiting their slick warmth, and then, as the fake moans came to an end, he’d roll over to sleep, forgetting about the vile thing he’d just done.

 _And I am vile_ , he told himself. _And this isn’t for me._

_A true love’s kiss. A true love’s fuck._

He remembered something from Disney, something about a true love’s kiss releasing a princess from her torment. In other words, a world not cut out for him. He was the villain, and in America, villains never win. No, they come tumbling down with a gunshot wound, their blood painting the sidewalk red.

_And Johnny, is he my prince charming in this cookie-cutter dream? Fuck no._

_Villains don’t get true love or prince charming. Villains get nothing._

“… Shh,” Johnny whispered, his lips hovering over his. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” came the broken reply. “I know.”

“What do you want, my love?”

That question knocked the wind from his lungs. He was pretty certain that his face was now a few shades paler than with a layer of white foundation smeared on, and the worst part? He couldn’t escape this. Couldn’t. A fly on flypaper, legs unmoving and his heart mimicking the sound of heavy metal drums, perhaps the intro of ‘Painkiller’. What if it all came crashing down, devouring the last of his sanity? He couldn’t lose another person dear to his heart. He couldn’t. 

“I…” he breathed, his jaw tightening.

 _… I don’t know how to answer that. How pathetic am I?_ He squeezed his eyes shut, aware he’d bitten off more than he could chew. 

_I just fucking fantasized about it and now I can’t even – fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!_

“Hey,” Johnny said, “focus on me, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They locked in a stare, Johnny’s eyes warm and loving, and there was a small crease of concern between his eyebrows, like he was disconcerted by his absentmindedness. Brian didn’t like that. He wasn’t a baby; he knew what he wanted, after all, and here Johnny was, offering it to him after years and years of dancing around one another, never once giving in. But for whatever reason, he felt like he couldn’t reach inside his heart and drag out any of that pent-up desire, the mental images, dreams, fantasies.

 _I need to get away,_ he thought, panicking.

 _I don’t want to be here. Not now._

“I love you,” Johnny told him again, and his eyes, God, those eyes, long-lashed and dark with lust, searched his face. But he couldn’t say those words. His tongue wouldn’t move to form them. It made him swallow hard, and he shook his head, whispering, “Sorry,” and Johnny, understanding and kind as he were, nodded.

“It’s okay,” he whispered and settled his mouth on the singer’s neck, his lips pressing gentle kisses to the tender skin there, and just like he’d thought, he moaned at the contact, at how the kisses made him tingle all over, making his head go blank, like all his worries just evaporated like an ice cube in the California sun. His beard tickled him. His mouth found all the right places, remembering almost instinctively what he liked. In that moment, all he could think of was Johnny, his mind locked on him, on the scent, the feel, the view. As his tongue slid across his neck over to his ear, Brian pressed into his chest, his body pleading for more where his brain couldn’t. No, there was an emotional overload, and he just surrendered to his touch, abandoning all logic, all fright and nervousness because, quite frankly, he couldn’t deal with his own bullshit anymore. He hadn’t been himself. He’d become so human, allowing fear to gain dominance. And that wasn’t him, wasn’t Marilyn Manson, a persona he’d once crafted to let go of the insecure, awkward little prick called Brian Warner.

 _I’m not the coward in this relationship,_ he thought bitterly while feeling warm lips brushing against his jawline. _Johnny is. And he doesn’t get to make me feel small. Hell no._

The rage returned. It was a worm gnawing at his innards, veins, joints, heart. It was an itch, a maddening itch that became more and more intolerable by the second. The kisses along his jaw, although sweet, angered him to the point where he began trembling, and he forcibly shoved the actor aside, making him roll over on his stomach and yelp his name, startled. Brian swiftly climbed on top of his legs, pinning him to the mattress, trapping him, and Johnny, who wasn’t sure what the fuck had happened, just waited, his breath coming out in shaky exhales.

“… I’m not some stupid girl,” he growled.

“I’m perfectly aware of that, Marilyn.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“Then stop bloody acting like one,” he retaliated, annoyed. “Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself – please – and just bloody move on! It’s what I’m doing!”

A moment of stunned silence followed. Johnny, who was mentally chiding himself, was about to apologize for the childish remark, but before he could open his mouth, Brian forcibly pulled down his denim blue jeans – and underwear. The actor’s eyes opened wide, and he made a small sound of surprise, a gasp, his hands immediately reaching down to his backside, grabbing one of the singer’s hands, who gave an affectionate squeeze before taking a hold of his wrists, holding them tightly on either side of his body. He tensed. What on earth was going through Brian’s head? 

“What, scared stiff?”

“What are you-”

“Oh, don’t play games with me, Depp,” he grumbled.

“I’m not,” the actor replied, sounding confused.

Brian slapped his ass – hard.

“Aaargh!” Johnny screamed, his eyes widening in horror. “What the hell, man-”

“Ah-ah-ah.” The raven-haired man wagged a finger at him as if he were a naughty, misbehaving child, and then he said, “Good girls don’t swear, Johnny,” and smiled wickedly. Johnny gave a breathless laugh.

“ _Pardon_?”

A resounding crack filled the air as the singer slapped his ass again, as hard as he could this time, hard enough to leave the impression of his palm visible on the tender flesh, and Johnny shrieked in pain. And yet, in spite of the horrible pain, his dick sprang to life, very interested in wherever this was going. Another slap, another crack. His skin tingled, and he screamed again, screamed, “Brian!” and struggled against him. His hair had flown into his face, into his eyes, and he was laughing so hard he was practically crying. “Oh, oh, what are you doing?” he managed in between laughs.

“Fulfilling your every dream, of course. Dimwit.”

Johnny let out a huff of air, a couple of tears trickling down his face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Seeing as you’ve been offering yourself to me like a lovestruck fan for weeks now,” the singer said huskily, running his hands along his exposed thighs and buttocks, “I’m going to take what’s _mine_.” The sound of that deep baritone voice was enough to make Johnny shiver, but the possessiveness of his words took it a step further, his breath catching in his throat. Gods, had his voice always been like that, low but with an edge of steel? He whimpered pathetically, arching into his touch with sluttish abandon, craving every inch of him.

“As willing as a lovesick dog, aren’t you?” the singer murmured, the hint of a frown between his eyes. 

“Gods, Marilyn.”

He released a breathless little gasp as Brian continued to grope his ass, equal parts intrigued and curious to find that his touch was wanted. His finger pressed lazily against his butt crack, and the actor mewled and arched against him, needing more. The singer’s eyes flared when he added a breathy, “Please, Brian,” that was nothing if not desperate. “I need you.”

The word ‘need’ made him falter, hesitant. This wasn’t a joke, then. Never had been.

“… Fuck,” he said, pausing. “Johnny, I…”

“Don’t think on it.”

“No,” the singer agreed, his voice thick.

“Marilyn…”

The raven-haired man smiled and tugged at the black T-shirt he was wearing. Getting the hint, Johnny lifted his lithe frame off the mattress and pulled the piece of clothing over his head, tossing it to the side. When he’d laid back down on his stomach, spreading his legs wide open, he twisted his neck to see. For a moment, their eyes locked. The singer blushed, a tint of pink on his cheeks, and Johnny suppressed the urge to giggle. His Marilyn was so predictable, he thought, and it was adorable.

 _You’re so fucking perfect, Depp_ , Brian thought, biting down on his lip. Here they were, naked and in bed, a scenario that was so impossible, he had a hard time understanding it could be real. He ran a loving hand up his right leg, feeling the firm muscle underneath. A slight shiver went through the actor’s body. The reaction made the singer suck in a breath through his teeth, and he crawled on top of him, though careful not to crush him under his weight. He began placing a trail of kisses along his spine, knowing very well that he was ticklish there, another one of his quirks, and continued all the way up to his neck. When he got to his nape, his dick accidentally nestled between his buns, and Johnny let out a small, “Mm,” sound, delighted, and lifted his butt, rubbing against his length.

“Oh, fucking hell,” the singer whispered, running his mouth along the older man’s jawline. He twisted his neck to kiss him as best he could from the odd angle, and with their lips only inches apart, the raven-haired man whispered, “Love you too, dimwit,” his voice low and gruff. In spite of the tough boy act, his eyes softened as he said this, this painfully earnest admittance, and the actor grinned, kissing him once more, relishing the softness, the warmth and rightness of his touch. It just felt so damn easy to kiss Marilyn, he thought, almost as if his maker had intended for them to be together. When the kiss deepened, he completely melted, giving himself up to this man, this beautiful alien he didn’t much deserve, and prayed that, Please, let it be for real this time. Please, let it be us.

With a gasp, Johnny broke off the kiss. He could feel Brian’s hard prick poking him in the bum, ready to bury itself in his warmth. 

“… You’re such a beautiful motherfucker, Depp.”

Johnny smiled, a warm, tingly sensation spreading through his chest like wildfire.

“Suppose it’d be too sentimental of me to return the compliment?”

The singer let out a guttural, “Mh-hmm,” that made Johnny chuckle. What a silly, gorgeous man his Marilyn was, always underestimating his true worth. Instead of complimenting him, Johnny lifted his butt and pressed up hard against the singer, drawing little moans from his throat as he created friction, almost enough to drive him over the edge. His own dick was rock-hard and straining against his belly, but it could wait. After yesterday – and the last decade – he owed Brian some sweet release.

“Tease,” the younger man hissed through his teeth. Johnny felt his hands clamp around his hips as he struggled against him, rocking back and forth, and then he stilled him, murmuring, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Johnny,” in that voice, that husky, sensual voice. It made him shiver to the core of his being. God, that voice.

“Now, pretty boy, what do you want me to do to you?”

“Mm,” he breathed. “Just about every goddamn thing you can think of.”

The singer chuckled and ran his large, slender hands down from his hips down to his thighs, his fingernails dragging lightly over his skin. Then he cupped his balls, which almost startled him. He didn’t want this to be about him, not too much anyhow.

“… I want you to fuck me, Marilyn,” he said, delivering his request with unashamed bluntness.

Brian said nothing but rolled his eyes, aware of every thought that went through that pretty head of his. Sure, it’d be nice to just shove his dick up that tight asshole and fuck him hard, but it’d be even nicer to see him unravel, to see him want every second of it, screaming his name until he came hard.

He let go of his balls only to wrap his hand around his dick, slowly stroking it back and forth, making him mewl and gasp under his touch, already so close, tooclose.

“Marilyn,” he begged, his frustration bleeding through. “Please, won’t you…”

“I don’t have any lube,” the singer admitted, pressing a kiss to the small of his back. “I don’t even have a fucking condom in here.”

Johnny grunted. “Doesn’t matter.”

The younger man looked conflicted, running a hand through his hair.

“This is a cliché, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

Johnny scoffed.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Brian Warner.”

“I aim to be,” he retorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But let’s not literalize that statement.”

“… I assure you I’ll be fine and-”

He cried out when the singer shoved a slick finger inside him, his muscles protesting. Growling, he said, “You did that just to make a bloody point.”

“Indeed. Did it hurt?”

“… Yes.”

“Then what makes you think my dick would feel any better?”

“I can live with it.”

He shook his head. “Well, I can’t.”

“I’m perfectly fine with it, Marilyn – I am.”

The singer looked at him like he thought he’d gone off his meds.

“I’ll see if I have some baby oil or something in the bathroom.”

“… You only thought of that right now?”

Brian shrugged. He got up from the bed to retrieve his friendly bottle of baby oil; he’d known about it all along but had wanted to teach him a lesson. With things of such delicate nature, one should always be gentle and take it slow. Even _he_ knew that. And perhaps the slightly sadistic, sardonic side of him had wanted to punish him for being such a mindless idiot, which, after the incident in the studio and the ‘prank’ on the red carpet, served him well.

Johnny sighed and said, “You’re impossible,” and Brian retorted with, “And you’re an idiot,” and hurried inside the bathroom. The small detour took about thirty seconds. When he sat back down on the bed, bottle in hand, the actor stared at him expectantly through long lashes, his legs still spread apart, waiting. The singer quickly uncapped the makeshift lube, applying a generous amount to his palm before slicking his fingers, then his hole.

“Might be a bit uncomfortable,” he warned him.

“I’m perfectly aware of that.”

Using one finger, then two, he stretched the tight opening, immediately sensing that without the oil, Johnny would’ve had a hard time accommodating him. Hell, he was clenching around him, his body unaccustomed to the sensation of having just two fingers shoved up his asshole, and as he worked on scissoring him open, Johnny closed his eyes, breathing hard.

“… Touch yourself,” the singer commanded softly, and Johnny moved to stand on his hands and knees, reaching down to fondle himself. The sight was too much, really, and Brian knew he probably wouldn’t last long. Unable to wait any longer, he withdrew his hand and squirted more oil into his palms and rubbed them together. The perfumed smell filled the air, and Johnny didn’t move, just waited, his gaze fixed on the wall. Brian gave his dick a few lazy tugs, making it slick, before positioning himself behind the brunet. Before easing himself in, he ran a hand down his thigh, appreciating how he trembled like a goddamn fawn under his touch, nervous, excited and a little bit scared, as one ought to be when fucked by Marilyn Manson.

“Brian,” he whined. “Come o-on, please.”

He immediately pressed his dickhead against his asshole, gently pushing forward.

“Ow,” Johnny gasped, closing eyes. “I…”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

The singer expertly pressed against his ring several times. Johnny felt himself open up, though slowly, his body struggling to adjust. Then he pushed back against him, and the moment his whole head went in, they stilled. The sensation was magical, so strong it numbed the sharpest stings of pain. Johnny breathed through his nose, his heart swelling. It was perfect. 

“Oh God,” the singer groaned. “So fucking tight.”

His self-restraint waned. In one motion, he slid his whole prick inside, and he instantly regretted it, his mind panicking, screaming, _Are you a fucking psychopath or something?!_ But Johnny didn’t cry out in pain. No, he moaned, the sound low and pleading. That settled it. Holding on to both sides of his hips, he slammed inside him, balls-deep, making every muscle in Johnny’s body tighten as cries of pleasure ripped from his chest. He’d found his prostate, perhaps guided by a purely physical memory from ten years ago. His lips quirked upward in victory as he heard him crying out his name, satisfied with his accomplishment.

Again, he slammed back inside, locking and holding him in place as they found a rhythm.

“… Oh, o-oh,” Johnny hissed, his toes curling as he rocked with him, encouraging him. He set the pace then, and every stroke felt so good, drawing a sound from him. 

“Marilyn!”

“Is that good?” the singer breathed, his fingers digging into his hips, leaving marks. “You love having my dick up your tight little ass, don’t you?”

“Ah!” he cried out, losing all restraint. “Yes-yes-yes!” 

_He feels so fucking good. So. Fucking. Good._

“All mine,” the singer growled, thrusting harder and harder, faster and faster, the bed groaning.

“Y-yes!” came the stuttering reply, his breathing shallow and his nails digging into the sheets as he tried steadying himself. In the middle of the hot, sweaty mess of bodies pressing together, Brian noticed he wasn’t touching himself anymore. He slowed down the pace and reached for his dick, stroking him to bliss. Johnny felt as if his skin had caught fire, and he started thrusting back against him, desperate to feel him brushing against that sweet, sweet spot deep inside. Looking over his shoulder, he took in the sight of him, of the long forehead that shone with sweat, of the lips slightly parted, brown eyes dark with desire, of everything he’d yearned for; of everything he had missed. The thought hit him when he was about to climax, his first clear thought during their little bedroom reunion, and he cried out his name not once, not twice but trice, his voice shattering toward the end, dissolving into unintelligible shallow whisperings. Then he came, releasing himself in white, hot spurts on the sheets, his insides clenching around his dick.

Nearly collapsing on the bed, the actor fought for his breath, his body spent.

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” the singer groaned, letting go of his now flaccid dick while pounding into him, relishing his warmth. Seconds after, he orgasmed. Stars appeared before his eyes, and as he groaned, saying something along the lines of, ‘yes-yes-yes-fucking-yes,’ he spilled himself inside Johnny. Then, once he was done, he just stood there on his knees, savoring the sight before him as if he’d never get to see it again. With an almost sad look on his face, he pressed a kiss to the smaller man’s back, his hand traveling down his thigh, caressing him, and it was absurdly affectionate, that touch. Johnny chuckled. He was the one accused of being a sentimental motherfucker, but it wasn’t quite accurate, was it?

“… What?” Brian slapped him playfully across the ass. “Don’t laugh at me, Depp.” Then he pulled out, watching with interest as his semen trickled down that bronzed leg.

 _No blood,_ he told himself, feeling relieved. _Gotta buy some lube._

“I wasn’t,” Johnny assured him, smiling a little. “I just thought you were being sweet.”

Brian grunted and said, “Idiot,” without any real conviction. Johnny shifted on the bed and, for a second, froze as he felt wetness run down his thigh. Just semen, he told himself, and moved closer to the singer, sitting down next to him, a wide grin spreading across his face. Brian reached for the baby wipes – he always kept them on the night table – and cleaned him up. Intrigued, Johnny watched his face, scrunched up in concentration as he helped him out. There was so much tenderness, he thought, hidden behind this man’s controlled exterior. So much love.

“I probably am, you know.” He licked his lips, his heart skipping a beat as his lover’s hand came to rest on his knee, finger tracing circles on the side. “An idiot, that is,” Johnny added, trying to come off as witty but failing, his voice gruff, emotional. 

The rockstar saw, of course, and averted his eyes.

“For wanting me to do that to you? Definitely.”

“What? I love it when you ravage me.”

“… Why is that so fucking hard for me to believe?” he muttered, his hand falling away.

Johnny stared at him, and then he did something unexpected. He climbed into his lap like a little girl and rested his head against his shoulder, whispering, “Brian, love… I’m never leaving this bedroom - never ever,” while his hand started absentmindedly playing with the singer’s soft hair. Brian was speechless. He sat there, a sweaty, disgusting mess, with an armful of Johnny, a vision of beauty if he’d ever seen one, and it made those stupid butterflies jolt back to life, his body feeling almost weightless as their wings tickled his innards, filling him with forbidden glee. He sighed and moved impossibly closer, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, holding him protectively against his chest. And if Johnny wanted it, he wouldn’t ever let go of him. He’d love and protect him for all eternity, and he didn’t even feel cheesy about thinking that thought.

“So… I won’t wake up to an empty bed tomorrow?” he asked, sounding doubtful, scared almost. 

Johnny pulled back slightly, their eyes meeting.

“I promise you I’m not messing with you,” he said quietly. “I love you. It’s real. It’s what I want.”

“… I want that too,” the rockstar admitted reluctantly, and then he hid his face in the crook of his neck, pretending he wasn’t sniffing his hair, which he was, and let out a frustrated groan, asking himself whether or not he had gone off the hinges for real this time, allowing this to happen.

“Fuck. I don’t understand any of this, Depp. You show up in LA after a million years, divorced and fucking metamorphosed, and turn everything upside down – my whole life, and it’s… confusing.” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly through his nose. “But… I - I want the same. I do. It just feels surreal, like it’s a weird dream I’ll wake up from any moment now.”

The actor put a hand on his cheek and leaned in to kiss him, a brush of lips, soft and warm. It was brief and sweet, and as he pulled back, ending it, he chuckled below his breath. Brian arched a brow at him. He didn’t get the joke. 

“What?”

“How lame are we?” Johnny asked. “We’ve stopped being cool. We’ve conformed.”

“… If you’re seriously saying that dating me is conventional, I think we ought to see a neurosurgeon.”

Johnny giggled like he’d won the lottery.

“You said ‘we’.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Wonderful man.” Johnny kissed his cheek, a big smooch. “Wonderful and strange and perfect.”

 _Yeah, I’m totally the weirdo here,_ Brian thought, rolling his eyes.

“… Endorphins are nice,” he commented.

“The best drug there is,” Johnny agreed, completely missing out on the sarcasm, either by choice or being fucking oblivious, but Brian found that he didn’t really care. His youthful excitement was slightly more charming than it was annoying, so he decided he could live with it. There was also the fact that Johnny was smiling because of him, because of loving him and needing him. And – after pulling his head out of his ass – he recognized that he’d needed him just as much these last few months, with the album, his mother, Jeordie and everything in between. What ultimately squeezed the air from his lungs was that Johnny had been there through all of it, especially when he hadn’t wanted him to, his depression craving loneliness and hatred and darkness. But Johnny had been there, steadfast and firm, and he hadn’t listened to what he’d said, he’d listened to what he’d needed.

 _He knows me_ , he thought, gazing into those unnervingly familiar eyes. _Through and through._

“Depp, I-”

He was interrupted by an abrupt knock on the door. They looked at one another, and before any of them could answer, the housemaid called out, “Mr. Manson,” and knocked again. “Mr. Manson, I can’t find Mr. Depp – but his shoes are in the hallway. I don’t know what to do – I’m so sorry.” Brian detected a note of urgency in her voice, like she was afraid he’d give her a good whipping, which was enough to make him sigh, wondering what kind of hellhole this woman had grown up in. Whatever the place, she’d been scarred for life, always walking around on eggshells. He was mean, but he wasn’t _that_ mean.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated timidly.

“He’s here.”

“… Oh.” There was a long pause. “Your dinner is ready. The skinny lady’s in the kitchen with all her Tupperware containers.”

Upon hearing this, the actor looked at him with the same kind of amusement and mild curiosity he always had when he doubted the singer’s sincerity, and as far as fitness was concerned, he seriously doubted Marilyn would or could be sincerely interested in its pursuit.

“I’ll be down there in-”

“Tell her to take a hike!” Johnny called out.

“What?” Mrs. Martín asked, appalled.

Brian let out a frustrated little sound from the back of his throat, not wanting to upset her.

“Johnny.”

“We’re going to McDonalds!” he declared, now grinning from one ear to the other. “I happen to know a thing or two about Mr. Manson, after all, and I’m quite sure that whatever fancy vegan dish that woman’s come up with, he’d rather eat his own smelly socks.” 

“… What?” the woman repeated, clearly only catching bits and pieces of what was being said. Probably feeling rather uncomfortable, she called out, “Mr. Manson?” in a high-pitched voice. “What is going on?”

“Uh…” He was still frowning. “Put the food in the fridge and tell Vanessa to go home.”

“Ok, ok,” the woman said, confused. Johnny held his breath in suspense, and it was not until the sound of her footsteps had died away that he dared to laugh, sounding like a lunatic who’d escaped the looney bin. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind, his guffaws bouncing off the walls, echoing in the large room. The singer looked less amused. Mrs. Martín, a proper pope-zombie who’d somehow stumbled into the house of the Antichrist, would surely become hysterical if she found out her employer was, well, fucking another man.

“P-poor lady,” the brunet managed to squeeze out in between laughs. “Oh my lord.”

“If she thinks we’ve been sleeping together, she’ll probably quit.”

 _I hate hiring new people_ , he thought sullenly, still ticked off about Landon the moron. 

“She’ll know.” Johnny looked down at the milky white stains on the black sheets. Brian’s eyes darted down to inspect the damage, and indeed, there was no way she’d miss those stains. He felt like facepalming. Not that he was scared of his own housemaid, not in the slightest, but he didn’t like how she got all weirded out and silent when he’d done something extra ‘sinful’.

“I’ll be hearing a word or two about Jesus,” he said, sighing. “Let’s take a shower. I feel like a pig.”


	10. I Let Love In

January 25, 2017

Los Angeles, California

He was reading a script, a witty, intelligent script that made his fingers itch. Sure, his first love would always be music – the Hollywood Vampires was a nice side project – but there was this one hard reality he’d once had to face: He wasn’t nor would he ever be a great guitarist. He was, however, a great actor, and he loved his fans, he loved the acting and loved the process of going from nothing to something. In the end, when they wrapped it up and a new movie had been made, he felt proud. It left him with a good feeling. It wasn’t more complex than that, really, and so he was reading a script handed to him by his agent, a script that made him feel passionate about an idea once more. He needed to do this, he decided with a smile, a brilliant, earnest smile that felt foreign on his lips after the… eventfully uneventful last couple of months. A bumpy ride. 

_‘We’re well-to-do middle-aged wasps. We can get prescriptions for anything we want, darling,’_ he read, and then he closed his eyes, only briefly, and pictured the bed, the bed with the black sheets and cum stains. Johnny lowered the book in his lap, his eyes glazing over with thoughts of yesterday, of Marilyn. That damn towel. Wet, warm lips. The way he’d fallen apart for him. He let out a sound from deep in his throat, a sound caught between a moan and a sigh. His Marilyn. His sweet, cynical Marilyn who was oh so lovely in bed. He snapped out of it – couldn’t get lost in daydreams, not when he had work – and tried to refocus on the script. For about fifteen minutes, he read and reread each line, taking so much care with it all, trying to get into his character’s head.

_What makes you tick, Richard? What breaks you?_

_… Apart from the lung cancer, of course._

He wrinkled his forehead, tired, and flipped the page. Then his eyebrows rose. The hell was this?

 _‘I hope your parents all told you that you fucking die at the end.’_ He mouthed the words, thumb pressed against his cheek. _‘You’re gonna die… even our blessed little Rose will die…”_

“… Daddy?”

His eyes flew up from page twenty-two and found hers, not letting them go as his forefinger rested on the booklet, on the last word he’d read: die. _Our blessed little Rose will die._ How cruel. Wicked. He felt guilty somehow, guilty that the script could carry such grimness in it.

His blessed little daughter wore a look of amusement though, unaware of the ominous thing he’d just read, the corners of her mouth quirking upward. Clad in a white summer dress, she was more dazzling than either of them, even in their young years, and he became thoughtful again, wondering if she’d ever pick up acting, follow his footsteps and all that jazz. With such expressive eyes, it seemed a given. But what would her first love be? He hoped she would follow it, and for that reason alone, he wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t dream of it.

“Dad,” she repeated, and more firmly this time. He blinked.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Is that” – she nodded at the booklet – “for work?”

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes this time, and said, “Ah, yes. I’ve been lazy for some time now, lazy and, ah, unfocused. It’s good to keep busy, you know.”

“Pirates?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I, well, I want to broaden my horizons, as they say.”

“And what’s it about?”

“You can read it yourself, if you’d like?” he suggested, hoping to see her take an interest in something besides her phone. But she just rolled her eyes, saying, “I don’t have time for _reading_ ,” putting a lot of emphasis on that word, her lip curling with distaste. He almost laughed. Just the other day, she had mentioned wanting to pursue a degree in literature. “I’m leaving in a couple of minutes. I’m going out with Skylar, so don’t give me that look. We’re just going to the movie theatre, and no, there won’t be any boys.”

He held his hands up in surrender, wondering what was up with the attitude.

“Hey, grumpy, cut your old man some slack.”

“You fret too much.”

“I haven’t.” He pouted, though his eyes shone with mirth. His little girl put her hand on her hip, a real diva right there, and he really wanted to laugh. He suppressed the urge. She wouldn’t have forgiven him for laughing.

“Yet. You haven’t yet.”

“Alright, alright.”

He reached for his whiskey and drank some, then he scrunched up his nose, thinking, _How long did I leave that there?_ The ice cubes had melted completely and it was watered out. Gross.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’ve so rudely interrupted you?”

He arched a brow at her.

“Well, why?”

The smile on her face was absolutely devious. Damn, what was going on? Did he even want to know?

_Hmm. Foreboding, this._

“So, tell me again, how did you and Manson first meet?”

“You’ve heard it before, and it is still a rather unremarkable tale. I went to this party-”

“Oh, let me stop you right there, Daddy,” she interrupted him, eyes gleaming dangerously. “I happen to know that you’re very wrong, and I don’t think you’re even aware of how wrong you are.”

If she ever decided to try out as an actress, the part of a villain would be just right for her. Wicked woman – in all the right ways, of course – but wicked nonetheless.

“I… I don’t know where this is going, darling?”

“Back to the late 80s,” she told him bluntly and handed him a yellow envelope she’d been hiding behind her back. “Read this. I think you must’ve smoked too much weed back then, Daddy. I hope this can resurrect your memory of certain…” Her smile widened into a grin, a grin that reminded him of the Joker, dark and strange and knowing. “Events.”

“Events?”

“And once you’ve read it,” she continued, her smile unwavering, “you should surprise Manson.”

“Wait, wait, hold on, my girl… Let me catch up here,” he said, frowning as he stared at the envelope, at the words ‘Forget me not’ in cursive. Her handwriting, he noted. It was very elegant, very girly. And if those words weren’t enigmatic enough, the contents of the envelope were nothing short of baffling. A college newspaper in black and white. It depicted his face, well, his face as a, hmm, twenty-five-year-old man? He couldn’t be sure, but he was certainly baby-faced and quite a bit less scruffy than the sight that met him in the mirror every morning.

“Well?”

“I don’t understand any of this – and surprise him? I’m apparently crappy at grand romantic gestures, as we’ve all learned the hard way-”

“Just don’t call the paparazzi and it’s a bulletproof plan. Trust me.”

“Lily-Rose…” He wrinkled his forehead. “What is this?”

She let out a dramatic sigh and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him like he was retarded.

“Look at the date and the name of the author. Jesus, how hard can it be?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but when he glanced down to see a very familiar name – not his own - he became speechless, at least for a little while, not quite able to process all of this. His brain tried to come to terms with the information, come to terms with it because it was almost traumatizing. Brian Warner. Brian. Warner. 1988. And he had no recollection of this whatsoever, almost like a black hole inside his head, and holy hell, it was scary! How had he managed to forget about this? How terribly rude. Stupid brain. Stupid, stupid, stupid brain.

“I…” He drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t remember…”

She fixed him with an unimpressed look before gazing down at her wristwatch, clearly impatient to get out of there.

“You work on that. I’m leaving,” she declared, now satisfied, at least reasonably satisfied. She’d given him a nudge, hadn’t she? “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait, why did you…?”

“Why did I what?”

“Dig this thing up?”

She pursed her lips, seeming even more disappointed in his IQ than before.

“Because I _like_ Manson. And I’m a little bit tired of you making a mess of it all.”

“No, no, no. How did you even find this? This is so… so obscure. Funky.”

“I didn’t need to look very hard.” She flashed him a tight little smile. “The two of you have fans, and some of those fans are very interested in your, well, friendship” She frowned, thinking twice, then added, “Relationship?” Johnny didn’t answer. She shrugged, not one to obsess over labels. Not that they were… together. Not yet. To soon.

“Anyways, they’re like bloodhounds, or investigators. This article” – she pointed at the printed version – “was all the rage on this website devoted to the two of you.”

“I… What?”

She clicked her tongue and tilted her head, a gesture she’d learned from her mother. It made her come across as just slightly condescending, but he’d mention it later, not now.

“They call you ‘Johnnilyn’.” 

Two perfectly sculpted brows flew up. _The Internet is too darn weird,_ he thought, and he suddenly needed a cigarette. Not in front of Lily-Rose, of course. He did want to set a good example where it mattered.

“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, a little bit irked.

“I think it’s cute.”

“Ah, well, that is…” He trailed off, eyes glued to the article. “And what am I to do with this?”

“Make things right,” she told him with a shrug, and if he hadn’t been an actor himself, he would’ve mistaken it for disinterest. Whatever her part was in this staged scenario, this little seed she had planted in his brain, she didn’t want it to be acknowledged. But he saw it for what it was and was grateful to her. His happiness – and Marilyn’s happiness – was her priority. It warmed his heart. In spite of how she’d grown up, Vanessa’s… manipulative, aggressive behaviors hadn’t rubbed off on her. She’d just inherited the good stuff.

 _Small blessings,_ he told himself.

“And please, would you stop confusing him? Just… just treat him to something nice, something romantic. Can’t you travel somewhere, like, together? I’m leaving tomorrow evening, after all. Don’t just sit around and wait for him, or whatever your plan is.”

He nodded, swallowing thickly.

“I will miss you, sweetheart.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, her eyes thoughtful.

“I’ll be back in a month,” she promised him, and then she walked over to where he was seated and gave him a quick hug. “Jack will come too. I’m sure he’s had enough time to think things over by then, not that he’s angry or anything. I just think… he’s a bit clueless. He gets that from you.” Then her phone beeped. She quickly glanced at the text message she’d received, a line appearing between those prominent eyebrows of hers.

“Crap,” she murmured. “I’m _so_ late. Bye, Dad.”

“See you tomorrow, sweet pea.”

“Yeah,” she said quickly and all but ran out of the room. The door closed with a thud. He heard her footsteps as she made her way down the stairs, and then there was nothing. Silence filled the study. In the corner, the large grandfather clock went tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Maddening, wasn’t it? Though he supposed he shouldn’t be afraid of something as alluring, as inspiring as silence. After all the screaming matches, insults and whatever else had gone down in France, he should feel blessed.

… Yet he didn’t. Hadn’t ever liked the silence.

Sighing, he raked his fingers through his hair and whispered, “I don’t like this house,” to no one in particular, maybe to the house itself, its walls, its rooms, its everything. It was a good house, but it hadn’t been lived in yet, like a pair of new ice-skates that’d make your feet blister. Now that she’d reminded him of her departure, her journey back _home_ , back to the house she’d grown up in, he felt it in his bones. It wasn’t silence, he realized; it was loneliness. And it was so ugly.

He walked over to the window and caught a last glimpse of her, a petite figure with blonde hair that shone beautifully in the sunlight. The white fabric of her dress billowed behind her as she walked, revealing brown leather sandals, the gladiator kind – ‘impractical but fashionable’. When she disappeared out of sight, his very own little beacon, he scratched his beard and thought about the last couple of months. He’d initially thought that the divorce would make them drift apart, but to his surprise, they’d spent a lot of quality time together lately, almost on a daily basis. They’d never talked like this before. For some strange reason, one he didn’t want to dwell on, this brought tears to his eyes, just one or two. Relief. And when he sat down with the article, having poured himself another whiskey on the rocks, he tried his hardest to remember a tall and lanky man called Brian Hugh Warner, a man with dark, determined brows and dark eyes, stubborn but sensitive. Long hair. Porcelain skin. Round lips. Perfect.

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, groaning.

 _I love that man,_ he thought, and damn, how soppy was he? Mushier than a marshmallow, stickier than syrup and wetter than a waterfall. So soppy, so sentimental. But he couldn’t remember that interview, not for the life of him, and it bugged him like nothing else. Shouldn’t it have been love at first sight? He’d always assumed that it’d been love at first sight. How creepy. Sad, really. And in the end, a very distant memory of Marilyn, the early 2000s edition, telling him, ‘We’ve met before,’ was all that came back to him, something he was fairly sure had happened out on that balcony. That was the night… the night that had changed everything, and here they were, trying to make it real.

He blinked.

_I love him. I. Love. Him._

He finished his whiskey in one gulp, almost inhaling it. When he looked at the crystal bottle, amber liquid inside, he briefly wondered whether he should pour himself a third whiskey or not, and then he decided against it, decided he’d smoke a fag instead. He lit one and walked over to the record player, putting on _Skeleton Tree_ , because it was one of those days, longing, yearning, wanting and needing everything, and he didn’t even know what ‘everything’ was, just that it wasn’t in this house, wasn’t next to him on the couch when he sat down and exhaled bluish cigarette smoke. Wasn’t there.

“… You fell from the sky, crash landed in a field…”

Johnny threw his head back, lips locked around the cigarette.

“– river Adur, flowers spring from the ground…”

_Oh, Nicky boy, you’ve got it all right, so damn right._

“… With my voice, I am ca-alling you… With my voice–”

The impact of that song, of that chilling chorus, was enormous. It was shattering, made time itself stand still, made time listen. Johnny loved and hated it. In the middle of recording _Skeleton Tree_ , Nick’s son had died in a stupid, pointless accident. Meaningless. It happened only last year. Their kids had been around the same age, impossibly young, and yet he’d died. A boy of fifteen – just a kid – had died. Johnny had sat down with that album many times and had let it rip him apart, had let the grief sear his soul and blind his vision. Art was all about capturing feelings, moments, experiences, much like a photography captures its object, locking it in that moment forever. He appreciated art. It helped him see things more clearly. His life had become so dull, so ritualistic and hollowed out, he’d needed reminders. Lessons. And in _Skeleton Tree_ came one of the cruelest, kindest life lessons he’d ever received: Everything in life can be stolen from you in a heartbeat. And then mundane everyday life will catch up with you, erasing the magic you never knew you had, the little bit of God that exists in the gray world that surrounds all of humanity, and what is God? Johnny didn’t know how to define it. Some things were just sacred. Selfless love was one of those things, art another, and he didn’t want to take any of it for granted. Not anymore.

He let his eyes drift. On the walls were paintings some woman, an interior designer he’d hired for simplicity’s sake, had chosen. No soul there. And the furniture was boring, white or gray or black, and nothing had personality, not a hint. It didn’t bother him that much, not really, but something definitely did.

 _I’m a stranger in this house, my house,_ he told himself, _but earthly possessions are just loans anyway. So, if not a house, what’s a home?_

‘… sit together until the moment comes…”

The tears came. What if it’d been his girl instead? Or Jack? He’d fucking die, fall to pieces, let the earth reclaim him. He couldn’t protect them. A father is supposed to protect his family, his… partner, his children. But it was all a big farce. Nothing can protect you from freak accidents, crazy gunmen or cancer. All he could do was make _them_ believe they were safe, build a safety net, a safe haven, and keep them all from drifting apart. He would be their shepherd, their rock.

 _My herd,_ he thought to himself, taking a puff from his cigarette, _is my home. Home is, after all, where the heart is._

“… With my voice, I am ca-alling you…”

Johnny didn’t know it yet, but that would be his last smoke.


	11. Old Dogs Can Relearn Old Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. There might be some errors, especially the recurring cursive error. I don't have time to go through everything right now, but maybe later :)
> 
> Thank you all. 
> 
> I

January 26, 2017

Los Angeles, California

“–you, you can be mean… and I, I’ll drink all the time… ‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact… Yes, we’re lovers, and that…”

Everything was black, blacker than hell, and no, it wasn’t in the middle of the night and he wasn’t dead drunk either. Johnny, who certainly had a knack for being a pain in the ass, had knocked on the door and all but assaulted him, tying a scarf around his head without explaining what the actual fuck was going on, just mumbling something incoherent about a ‘pleasant surprise’, and as if that wasn’t diffuse enough, he’d said, ‘I’ve, um, I’ve remembered something crucial’ and shoved him inside the car. Because of his newfound blindness, all sounds were amplified, and while he didn’t really need to be blind to recognize ‘Heroes’, he now felt a bit flustered, listening to it, to the words, as if for the first time. It fit them perfectly, didn’t it?

“… We can be heroes…”

The scarf smelled like Johnny, all heavy and earthy and real, and there, just there.

_And cigarettes. Ash._

“–I, I wish you could swim!” Brian sang along, silently like he was suddenly shy about his voice, like he didn’t want to distort the original significance of that song. “Like dolphins…”

He abruptly cut himself short, almost biting his tongue off. He’d realized something, something kind of disturbing: That song wouldn’t ever be the same ever again. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He _loved_ Bowie, if that wasn’t already blatantly obvious seeing as Omega was, um, inspired – or maybe ‘birthed’ was a better word for it – by Ziggy. And damn, he’d actually have to throttle Depp if he somehow managed to ruin ‘Heroes’; it had to be his all-time favorite song. If he couldn’t listen to it anymore? That’d be a bloody disaster. He still couldn’t listen to _Diamond Dogs_ because it’d been his crutch after Johnny’d left the first time, and, well, he hoped there wouldn’t be a second time. And if there ever was a third time, he’d have to throttle himself for letting it happen.

_… For letting him hurt me. Again._

He tried not to think about it. The blindfold made it too easy to withdraw into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, and it wasn’t like he wasn’t already prone to introspection. Or brooding? Something like that.

“Are we there yet?”

“Ah, it’s still a no, doll.”

He sighed, annoyed. And damn, had his voice always been that clear and silky and smooth? Stupid scarf. Wasn’t like he hadn’t heard or smelled him before. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t. Back in the day, the concept of ‘personal hygiene’ had been foreign to Johnny, or at the very least something he wouldn’t concern himself with. Now he took showers on a regular basis, which was nice. Brian suspected Lily-Rose was the mastermind behind this minor but meaningful transformation; she’d probably brought it up in a less than delicate manner, blurting it out in front of her little friends. She’d once mentioned that Johnny was ‘kind of like a rich hobo’, at the age of nine or ten, and he’d be damned if that wasn’t the best description of the man he’d ever heard.

“… And we kissed, as though nothing could fall,” sang Bowie. “And the shame, was on the other side…”

 _If only._ Brian bit his cheek. _No, don’t associate ‘us’ with Bowie – fucking don’t._

“We’ve been driving forever,” he complained, trying to forget about the song. If he’d had his eyesight, he’d switch off the radio, but nope, couldn’t. _Great, just great. Thought we were done with grand romantic gestures. But I guess not. Thanks for respecting my wishes, Depp. Thanks a lot._

“Hmm? We’ve been driving for twenty minutes.”

The singer rolled his eyes; then he remembered that Johnny couldn’t see that he was rolling his eyes. 

“Look, this is fucking retarded, Depp,” he muttered sullenly, folding his arms across his chest. Whether it was to shield himself or look like a child throwing a temper tantrum, he didn’t know.

“No. Now shut up, you’re spoiling it. This is supposed to be very romantic and charming.”

“Oh, _I_ ’ _m_ spoiling it, am I? I thought this was supposed to be all about me.”

“Yes, you and how pretty you _look_.”

He snorted. “As opposed to how I sound?”

“Well… yes. Now shut up.” Brian detected a smile in that voice, and the fact that he could actually _hear_ Johnny smile made him shut up, lose his tongue, go temporarily mute. It was almost worrisome. Or maybe they just knew each other too well? He groaned, thinking about how many Bowie songs would be ruined in the future. That couldn’t happen.

“… Alright, I’ll make you a deal… I’ll shut my mouth if you promise to never listen to Bowie with me ever again,” he said enigmatically, and the actor laughed softly, eyes crinkling as at the corners, saying, “Oh, I know, love. Wouldn’t want to ruin a good track for you. That would be disastrous, wouldn’t it? Return the favor, would you, love? And never listen to Dylan with me, especially _Desire_.”

_… Wait, what?_

Brian was so startled that he forgot how to breathe, startled because he’d _understood_ , and subsequently, after a couple of seconds, he gasped for air, and Johnny? He hummed to himself, oblivious, and it was a familiar tune Brian couldn’t quite place. Oh, it was ‘Lay Lady Lay’. He wondered how he even knew that. He hadn’t ever liked Dylan. The dude had a voice that reminded him of steel wool rasping against metal, or the bleating of an old goat about to die from pneumonia. Johnny could keep him.

The car stopped moving, and the music came to a very abrupt halt as the brunet switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car, a large Jeep of all things, and Brian was left to his own devices, blind and tense and just a little bit scared, scared because he could hear jet engines, not too far above, and Johnny was talking to somebody, their voices muffled through the glass and metal. But he already knew where they were. Didn’t take a genius.

… _The hell is he thinking?_ he asked himself and swallowed nervously, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. _Where are we going? Paris? London? New York?_

The door swung open and the ‘fresh air’ of the airport hurt his nostrils. It reeked of jet fuel.

“Well, are you coming?”

He huffed.

“I don’t know. Am I?”

“Come on, love.” Johnny grabbed his hand, entwining their fingers like he’d done with Michele and Rose and Dita back in the day. But this wasn’t the same. His body electrified, hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and he broke out in gooseflesh, a shiver going through him, through his stomach, junk. It was strangely intimate, holding hands while blindfolded. New kink? Maybe. He didn’t mind, but he didn’t want an awkward boner, not now, not yet. He was wearing gray sweat pants – and no judgement, alright? It wasn’t like he’d known Johnny’d turn up on his doorstep to abduct him early in the morning. 09:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning was an ungodly time of the day. His brain, like an old computer, took a moment to function properly. He probably would’ve felt a lot better after a nice shower and a change of clothes, oh, and some delicious coffee, but that’d been off the table. So, he looked a mess.

An unpleasant thought occurred to him. He hadn’t packed as much as a toothbrush. This was going downhill fast, and he really, really, really wanted a shower. What a life, huh?

_Christ, am I really going abroad without a suitcase? What a nightmare. In my sweats. And I’m pretty sure this T-shirt has stains on it, coffee stains. So sexy._

Johnny tugged at his arm and led him away from the car.

“… Mind your step,” he cautioned and let go of his hand. Brian instinctively reached for the banister with his right hand to stabilize himself, and they slowly walked up a narrow staircase, Johnny breathing down his neck. Then he almost lost his footing, still unable to see, and muttered, “Fuck,” as he steadied himself. With a ragged breath, he realized he’d just about had enough of the blindfold. Didn’t exactly want to fall down the stairs.

“Can I take this goddamn thing off now?”

“Soon.”

“Jesus, Johnny,” he muttered angrily. “I already know we’re at an airport. Pretty sure I’m being kidnapped.”

“Mm-hmm, something along those lines.”

He stopped for a moment, his grip tightening on the metal railing.

“Not Paris, I hope?”

“No, no.”

“Well, fucking where?”

“You’ll see. We’ll be there in approximately four and a half hours.”

He let out a sigh, not great at concealing his annoyance. Then, as he tried to take another step toward the top of the stairs, he lost his balance, fell sideways and smacked his right temple on the railing. His shoe laces had come undone. It didn’t hurt his head as much as it hurt his pride, but either way, it was the final straw. He hadn’t had enough coffee to be able to deal with this in an amiable, peaceful manner, meaning without having a meltdown of some kind.

“… Brian?”

He exhaled through his nose.

“Okay, you know what, I’m taking this shit off before I get myself killed.”

“Ah, yes, sorry.”

Brian started tugging at the fabric, ripping at it, and Johnny shook his head and said, “Hey, I’ll do it, grumpy,” before quickly untying the scarf from around his head.

“There.”

It was a cloudless day, a very typical Californian day, and the sun, almost like that evil tower thing from _The Lord of the Rings_ , hurt his eyes. When he turned around to lecture the actor on how being blindfolded wasn’t very practical, wasn’t particularly romantic and not at all pleasant, he fell quiet. Those eyes, those brown eyes that somehow held the moon in them, so bright and deep and beautiful in all ways he could think of, just knocked the wind from his lungs and he wondered, pleaded for the universe to tell him what he’d done to deserve him, attract him and keep him. But he’d gone through hell because of him, hadn’t he? He’d paid in blood and tears, and now, after all these years, maybe it’d be enough. Maybe the villain could get Prince Charming after all?

“… Keep walking, Marilyn,” Johnny prompted him, a sweet smile curving his lips, one side a little higher than the other.

“Yeah, yeah.”

They entered the plane and sat down on a black leather couch, Brian first and Johnny after, and as they made themselves comfortable, the leather squeaked, new, and it was uncomfortable bordering on embarrassing. Well, to Brian. Johnny didn’t give a damn but seemed amused, like always, and Brian tried to come off as nonchalant, like always. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. There was a present on it, a box wrapped in brown craft paper. It was plain. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Johnny had written his name on it in big, chunky letters, he’d assumed it was anything but a present. It was, however, quite charming that he’d so obviously wrapped it himself. Brian couldn’t help but smile. It was… cute.

“… Open it.”

“Now?”

Johnny just stared at him. Alright then. He started tearing at the paper, immediately revealing a glossy red box underneath. It was thin and reminded him of the packages he’d receive when he’d ordered books online, only thinner. The actor watched him in half horror as he did this, looking like he anticipated a train wreck. He lifted the lid and tossed it aside, and when he was greeted by the same face that sat next to him on the couch, he frowned.“… You’re giving me a magazine… with your face on the cover?”

The actor laughed, surprised and nervous and kind of squeaky, which sounded off.

“Page three,” he said, and the singer rolled his eyes and flipped to page three. He was yet again greeted by the empty, devoid-of-life paper eyes of his lover. But as he took in the headline and the lead paragraph, it dawned on him. The interview in Fort Lauderdale, that’s what it was all about. He’d kept it secret for as long as they’d known one another, and Johnny’d never picked up on it, or remembered it, which wasn’t at all strange. But he’d wanted to avoid being another fan, another face in the crowd, and while he hadn’t been a fan back then and had only taken the job because his boss had demanded it, he still felt weird about it. It was all buried in a past that belonged to another person entirely. And yet it was oddly touching.

“… I don’t know what to say.”

The speakers started crackling and their pilot started speaking, saying they’d arrive in Fort Lauderdale in about four hours and eighteen minutes. Johnny smiled and said they had to sit down in the chairs and buckle up, and Brian brought the magazine along with him. Not ten minutes later, they were in the air, flying toward the city of their youth. Late teens and most of their, well, his twenties. And that stuff had happened half a lifetime ago. Time had just… disappeared. He should’ve savored the good stuff and let go of the bad stuff, but you know what they say about hindsight. And he was a bitter motherfucker and knew it. But there’s productive bitterness and there’s unproductive bitterness.

 _The past is in the past. We’re just two old dogs now,_ he told himself, eyes glued to the actor. He was busy watching the clouds and the blue and the ground below, his hand pressed against his cheek.

“… Every time I fly,” the actor drawled, sounding lazy, disinterested, “I think about death, about a terrible crash and a terrible nothingness, and I don’t like it.”

“Jeez, Depp.”

“… Lily-Rose used to be scared of me leaving. And I left a lot. So she’d say, ‘Don’t go, Daddy. You’ll die,’ and it just… it stuck with me. Sticks. And I think the same when she leaves for France, or when she comes to see me, and… now, this is ridiculous, but I was reading a script, yeah?”

“Yeah?”

“It said that ‘even your beloved little Rose will die’, and…” He closed his eyes for a second or two, willing the imagery away. “It hurt me. Rose – why is her name Rose? Is there some kind of crazy symbolism there, designed by God for me to understand? I don’t understand it though.”

“I see symbols everywhere too, Depp. But we’re humans; we like to project our own emotional and sentimental interpretations onto things. It’s like… seeing faces on trees, or in the clouds.”

Johnny nodded but didn’t seem to find the words very consoling, clearly worried about his daughter.

“If I died right now,” Brian said, voice strangely thin, “if we crashed, I wouldn’t be sad.”

“No,” Johnny agreed. “You’d be dead.”

“It’s just so serene up here,” he said, and he wasn’t trying to be morbid, not really. “It’s like… all the shit that happens on the ground doesn’t matter anymore. We’re just detached from it all. And death is just more of that, isn’t it? That’s how I see it, I guess.”

“… I can’t die on my kids though. They’d be angry with me.”

Brian hummed in acknowledgement.

“We don’t have to be Romeo and Juliet, I guess. Or Eva and Hitler.”

Johnny smiled, seeming torn between amusement and confusion for a second there. He couldn’t tell whether it was meant to be romantic or not. Brian could make everything and anything seem morbid if he wanted to, after all. Or even if he didn’t want to. His life was all about chasing the extreme and disturbing and grotesque. Even if he didn’t intend to come across as a weirdo, he was ultimately that, a weirdo, and it showed. Maybe he genuinely thought Eva and Hitler was a good love story – dying together and all that – and there it was again, creeping up on him: death.

He cleared his throat, and Brian’s thoughtful brown eyes shot up to meet his.

“We’ll die in twenty years, Marilyn,” he reminded him. “No need to rush things.”

Brian nodded. Then he thought about his age, about how his mother had died from Alzheimer’s and that he might inherit it, and if he did, he didn’t even have twenty years of clarity, of remembering names and faces and then the more defining stuff, stuff such as memories, first kisses and funerals and gigs, or how to simply make a cup of coffee. But he was quick to dismiss that thought. Obsessing over something he couldn’t change wouldn’t help anyone, not him, not Johnny, and they already knew their time was limited, being ‘mature’ and all.

“… Lily-Rose found the article online,” Johnny suddenly blurted out, sounding slightly ashamed.

“She did? You’ve got a small detective at home, don’t you?”

“Detective? More like a nosy parker, or, ah, a hobby psychiatrist.”

“Hmm, well, doesn’t really matter who found it. I suddenly feel young and stupid all over again,” the singer murmured, eyes tracing young Johnny’s cheekbones, cheekbones that reminded him of how much they’d both aged, at least on the outside, skin sagging and with a myriad of lines everywhere, furrows, and gray hair they dyed and other flaws that had snuck up on them, including his weight problem. He still hadn’t lost much. Pity.

“Nonsense. We’re old and foolish and proud as can be.”

“Old boys.” A smile stretched across the singer’s face. “Slipped your mind, didn’t it, Depp?”

“It did, though you said that we’ve met before. And to be very honest, I still don’t remember you, or that interview, for the matter.”

“I didn’t actually ask any questions. But I was running late – had asked Michele out on a date – and people wouldn’t move, so I walked out the emergency exit… and ran straight into you. Literally. You fell flat on your ass. Oh, and your bodyguard kicked me out. Said he was ‘being nice’ or some shit like that.”

 _‘Be nice, Dave,’_ his mind supplied, and he could suddenly recall the disgruntled look on young Johnny’s face.

“I don’t remember it at all. What a shame, ain’t it? If we’d seen each other then, long before Vanessa and Rose and all that foolery, we could’ve shared an eternity and not just…” He didn’t say it out loud, the ‘not just out remaining years’ or ‘old years’ or whatever he’d thought of saying. Brian fixed him with a look that said ‘stop-being-stupid’, stupid because the past was irreversible, a concept that was understood by everyone, everyone but a tribe in Australia who didn’t believe in the passing of time.

_A tribe in Australia and Johnny fucking Depp, apparently._

“It would’ve lasted a week, Depp. I was still a worm back then; I didn’t understand much about life and obsessed over women and payback and other hateful ideas. I wasn’t much to brag about.”

“Me too… and I wouldn’t want to live without the kiddies… but it’s still sad.”

“Aren’t you the one constantly accusing me of thinking too much? Cut the crap. We’re here, and alright, we’re a little late to the party, but we’re not dead yet, so there’s really nothing to cry about.”

“It’s just…” The actor’s eyes glazed over. “Nick Cave’s son got high and fell off a cliff and died.”

That drew a puzzled look from the singer.

“The hell, Depp?”

Johnny chewed on his lower lip, his eyes darkening like the evening sky.

“Life is fragile, Marilyn. And we’re fragile, you and me both, but… being scared of love, that doesn’t make us strong, only more fragile. There’s so much unfinished business here, like a chapter of a book we just forgot to write, and had you fallen off a cliff and died, with all this unfinished business between us, I’d be utterly destroyed. I love you and I want to keep on lov–”

“Hey-hey-hey, do you ever shut up?”

“You’re the one who-”

“No. And hello, I’m the princess on this very long, very tedious date, so you better listen. We, meaning neither one of us, will get high, fall off a cliff or die. Let’s take this one day at a time, yeah? And let’s stop whining about our emotions all the time. Christ, I just want to live a little before I die, not yada, yada, yada ya all day fucking long.”

The actor nodded, looking like a dog that had just been told not to chew on Daddy’s shoes. Then his eyes lit up. Brian could almost see the outline of a lightbulb above his head, and he wasn’t sure he liked wherever this was going, but then again, he’d been abducted and Stockholm syndrome is actually a real phenomenon.

“… Will you be my boyfriend, Marilyn?”

He frowned. Hadn’t expected _that_.

“Boyfriend?”

“Yes?”

The singer groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, feeling like jumping out the door and hit the concrete below with a messy, bloody splat. Boyfriend? Boy-fucking-friend. Boyfriend….

“You’re giving me diabetes,” he complained, still cringing because that word was horrible. “Why do you even ask? The whole world’s already seen us kiss on the red carpet, so sure, why not, I’ll be your damn boyfriend, but never call me that ever again, and especially not in publi-”

“Alright, babe.”

He let out a high-pitched whine, a ‘hnngh’ that sounded more pained than anything else, almost like Johnny’d been torturing him, and in a way, he had. All that emotional mumbo-jumbo was enough to make him go red as a beetroot, and Johnny knew it, laughing his ass off. And his laugh was very infectious. The singer joined in, though not entirely by choice, and then he gazed down at the magazine, the stupid fucking magazine, and he thought that it’d made no difference whatsoever. He threw it in the trash can, not wanting to look at it.

“I’m sorry I can’t seem to remember,” the brunet said, voice low and apologetic.

“I don’t give a fuck, okay? It was a stressful day and I think everyone in that room nearly had a heatstroke, and you had all the lamps on you and people were asking the same stupid questions they always ask. Don’t worry about it.”

A moment later, the intercom chirped and the gruff voice of the pilot, who sounded European somehow, announced that, “You may unbuckle your seatbelts,” and Johnny sprang up from his seat with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old on a post-birthday party sugar high. He then plopped back down on the leather couch and patted the empty spot next to him, signaling for the singer to follow his example. With considerably less ardor, the younger man got up from the seat, which had been comfortable enough. Johnny grabbed both his hands and pulled him down, closer, wrapping his arms around him. It was an odd angle, but he didn’t mind; Johnny smelled nice, was warm and, perhaps more importantly, felt like… home? Familiar and safe, and it didn’t matter that they were 35, 000 feet above the ground in a cramped, winged cage, he was just at home.

“… I… didn’t think I could feel at home anymore,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper toward the end of the sentence, and Johnny stiffened. Had he misheard? 

“Why’s that, my dear?”

“Well.” Brian pulled back before sitting down, and Johnny immediately put his arm around his shoulders, the touch making him flinch slightly, flinch because all of this was… new. For all that he’d been alive for nearly fifty years, he’d never allowed anyone not related to him by blood to become family – with the natural exception of Jeordie, but that was different seeing as he was, well, someone Brian had to take care of, and less so with Pogo, Stephen, in the picture. Either way, he assumed he’d been able to unwind, relax, _breathe_ properly while being… embraced… in time. He just needed time.

“When Mom died,” he continued, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, “I thought nothing would ever feel like home again. She was the only person who… understood. Who could just look at me and know… even if she was clueless, she’d know what… what I need.” He closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of Johnny’s neck. His skin was warm and smelled nicely, and it was good, good and perfect. How could it even be real?

“I know,” Johnny said quietly. “And I know it isn’t the same, but… I have a beautiful family. My daughter, my son… I was thinking about it just the other day actually, about how it’s my responsibility to take care of them, and… I want to take care of you as well. I want you to be part of my family, want you to spend time with them and with me, and…” He trailed off, his forehead wrinkling as he stopped to consider, or rather to mentally chastise himself for being wordy, verbose and, well, imprecise. 

“… And?”

“I’m blabbering. Sorry.”

“Hey, no, don’t say that… I’m… overwhelmed.”

“Sorry,” Johnny repeated, sounding anxious.

“No, shup up – don’t apologize, it’s annoying as h…” He drew in a deep breath, counting one, two, three, four… inside his head. Then he gazed up at him, up at the sincere and eccentric and odd little man he was so fond of. His anger subsided. There was nothing but kindness in those eyes, and love, and why should he get so angry just because someone tried to communicate that they, well, cared? And he cared too. A lot.

“I would…” His voice came out wrong, low and rough in a way. “I want to be part of it, Depp. I really want to be part of it.”

His mouth curved very slightly at the admittance – or acceptance? of his offer.

“Come to think of it, you already are… Lily-Rose is extremely fond of you, as am I, obviously, and Jack will, well, he doesn’t trust so easily, but we’ll get there… ah, I’m blabbering again.”

“Yep. But it’s okay.” 

_It’s how you are,_ he reasoned, something tugging at his heart, something that hurt as much as it felt good. _And I love who you are… and this lovey-dovey stuff will be the death of me._

Again, he imagined falling from the plane, hitting the ground, but in a strictly non-suicidal way, of course.

“Dear, my shoulder kinda hurts.”

“Don’t call me ‘dear’. Mom used to call me that.”

“Ah.”

They shifted on the couch, the leather groaning under them, sounding like a series of wet farts. At this, the brunet giggled unceremoniously, sincerely, reminding Brian of a child once more, and it was refreshing, this youthfulness. Johnny just didn’t grow old; he found joy in the simplest, stupidest things, and Brian adored him for it. Feeling inspired, he covered his mouth with his, kissing him hotly, deeply, and with a kind of urgency he hadn’t felt in a while, like he had to get closer and closer, so close it couldn’t possibly get any more intimate between them. Then, as Johnny’s hand slid up to his neck, caressing the sensitive skin there, a moan escaped him.

“I love you,” the actor breathed, his hand wandering down to Brian’s crotch, or rather the tent in his pants that was all but subtle, curtesy of the polyester.

_You too, idiot._

“… What about the stewardess?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

Brian laughed, giddy. He hadn’t been this naughty in years – fucking years – and he felt the thrill and excitement tingle up his spine, making him shudder. The hand cupped his junk, cupped and squeezed and fondled, and his dick got hard in an instant, pressing up against the waistband of his underpants. His body pumped with adrenaline as he heard the door click open and saw the stewardess take one long stride inside with a tray containing a snack and hot beverages. She froze as she took in the sight before her, of Johnny Depp’s hand around Marilyn Manson’s package, and she gave a small sound of surprise before muttering an apology, her eyes round as marbles. Johnny just smiled at her and said, “Later,” and she left in a haste, though the door closed with a soft click. Considerate girl, that one. Brian was, of course, red in the face. But hey, at least it wasn’t Mrs. Martín. She would’ve thrown a bible at them and asked the church to perform an exorcism on her ‘nice boss’.

“… Oh lord,” the actor said, and then he started laughing, which then bubbled up into a series of giggles. “She got herself a real eyeful, didn’t she?”

“I’m mortified.”

“Two words,” Johnny murmured. “Stage naughtiness. This is nothing. And help me out here, please?”

The singer lifted his bum from the couch so the older man could pull down his pants and pretties. His hard, throbbing dick sprang upwards, bounced a little, then settled against his abdomen. The smell of sex, semen-y and musky, hung heavy in the air. Their eyes locked, and Johnny grinned, looking as boyishly handsome as ever. And like always, Brian’s heart started beating faster at the sight of that smile, and, well, the fact that Johnny was smiling because of _him_.

“My,” he said, clicking his tongue, “someone’s happy to see me.”

“Um, yeah?”

Johnny grimaced for a moment, biting back laughter. Then he got a hold of himself and tried being seductive. Adding a little bit of spice couldn’t hurt, right?

“You have such a perfect cock,” he told the frontman in a surprisingly low, surprisingly husky purr. “Long and thick just absolutely perfect.

Brian grunted in response, his face going even redder. Contrary to common belief, dirty talk wasn’t his forte – and it certainly wasn’t a fetish of his. But when the actor took his dick in his right hand and started stroking him, slowly but firmly, he couldn’t help himself and moaned, letting out a quiet, “Fucking hell.” Johnny captured his mouth just then, and they kissed each other hard, their tongues meeting and parting, again and again, and Jesus Christ, there came that feeling, absolute pleasure, and it overtook him, wiping his mind clean and making him shiver, convulse, and then he came – after just three minutes – and spurted warm spunk all over Johnny’s hand.

He breathed hard. Johnny smiled, trying not to laugh, and then he laughed anyways.

“What?” Brian grumbled, blushing crimson. Coming after three minutes wasn’t exactly an admirable feat.

“It’s just…”

“What?”

“… What are we?” the brunet asked, eyes gleaming. “Fifteen?”

“Yeah, no.” The singer arched a brow at him, amused, and then he said, “We’re just a pair of old dogs, Depp.” Because they were.

“I’ll be anything you want, sugar.”

 _And if you call me that again I’ll wring your neck,_ he thought and smiled wryly, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t that all alone in the world. It was precious, a lifebuoy, really, and god knows he’d needed one of those. They shared another kiss, one that was slow and drugging and maddening all at once, and Johnny’s sticky hand found its way into his hair, but in all honesty, who gives a fuck?

 _Not me._

_Now, bye, motherfucker. Hope you liked the inside of my fucked-up brain._


End file.
